


Finding You

by Crossover_Chick



Series: The Forgotten Vows Verse [3]
Category: Alice: Madness Returns, American McGee's Alice, Corpse Bride (2005)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Hallucinations, Male-Female Friendship, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Poverty, Prostitution, Slowly Growing Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-25
Updated: 2013-05-11
Packaged: 2017-11-17 01:03:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 59,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/545805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crossover_Chick/pseuds/Crossover_Chick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Houndsditch Home for Wayward Youth has a new patient, and both Victor Van Dort and Alice Liddell are finding themselves having to adjust. Maybe they can help each other through it all. Pre-Madness Returns, post-Corpse Bride.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. New Arrival

April 9th, 1875

Whitechapel, London's East End, England

10:21 A.M.

"Look at that carriage!"

"Wow – a real swell must own that!"

"So why's it stopping outside _our_ place?"

Alice Liddell, rounding the hall corner after dusting Dr. Bumby's office, paused and frowned. Judging by the crowd in front of her, almost every child in the Houndsditch Home For Wayward Youth had decided that a certain upstairs window was the most fascinating thing in the world. "What's going on?" she asked, approaching them.

One of her charges, a young boy named Charlie, looked up. "There's somebody parked outside!" he reported.

"Somebody rich!" a girl, Abigail, added.

Curious, Alice peered over the children's heads. There was indeed a rather fancy-looking carriage parked outside the front gates of Houndsditch, made of dark wood and shaped with elegant curves – although the effect was rather spoilt by the baffling false fish mounted on the top. As she watched, the side door opened, and out came a balding man wearing an absurdly thin top hat, a thick mustache, and an impressive set of curled whiskers. After speaking briefly to the driver, he turned to help a rather plump woman through the door – a task that proved harder than first expected. "Cor, look at her!" a boy called Reggie laughed. "She's stuck!"

Indeed she was – the woman's body appeared to be _just_ too wide to fit through the doorframe. A wave of giggles swept through the crowd of children as they watched the man and his driver tug on the woman, who was yelling something about it being her dress that was caught. Alice rolled her eyes as the woman nearly whacked her driver in the head with her fan. _Yes, of course it's your_ dress _that's causing all the trouble. Oh, to be able to afford enough food to be that fat. . . ._

After a solid two minutes of pulling, the woman at last popped free, with much complaining on her part. She promptly took over the operation, ordering the driver around like a drill sergeant while a third figure emerged from the other side of the carriage. This one was a young man, tall and thin, with the whitest skin Alice had ever seen. "What did he do, walk out of a tintype?" she mumbled to herself.

Upon seeing the young man, the woman turned her ire on him, fussing with his suit and poking him in the stomach with her fan to stop him slouching. This left the driver free to unload a trunk and a pair of suitcases off the back of the carriage. "What – is they staying here?" Reggie asked, frowning.

"'Are they,'" Alice corrected. "And they can't be – this isn't a hotel. You'd have to be very confused to mistake it for such."

"What are you all looking at?"

Dr. Angus Bumby, proprietor of the Home, came up behind them with a frown. "What's all the fuss about? Some of you have chores, I'm sure," he added with a significant look at Alice.

"We've got people outside," Abigail informed him.

"With luggage,"Alice added. "You haven't invited anyone to stay, have you?"

"Luggage?" Dr. Bumby looked out the window. "Oh, the Van Dorts! Their son's a new patient," he explained. He straightened his tie and headed for the stairs. "I'd better go and greet them. Stop gawking and make yourselves useful – or at least get out of the way."

With that, he disappeared. The children stared at each other. "New patient?" Charlie repeated, looking puzzled. "But he's got parents!"

"Don't mean you can't be sick in the head," Abigail pointed out with a shrug.

"Looks like he'd break in a stiff breeze," another girl named Elsie said, pressing her face against the glass.

"Do you think we'll have to share a room with him?" Reggie asked his friend Ollie. "Crowded enough with just us in there!"

"We'll just have to wait and see," Alice said. "Now do as the doctor says and shoo. And thank you ever so much for the opportunity to clean this window."

* * *

"He could have warned us the dratted place was in the East End!"

Nell Van Dort gazed disdainfully upon the brown brick bulk that was the Houndsditch Home For Wayward Youth. "Not a high class place at all," she mumbled. "What's a doctor as good as he is doing in the worst part of town?"

"Well, he does specialize in orphans and disadvantaged children," William pointed out. "Maybe it's easier from him to have his headquarters here."

"Hmph. If I were him, I would have a proper hospital in the West End. At the very least, something with a decent coat of paint."

Victor looked up at the house as his parents argued, his stomach twisting into knots. This was where he would have to stay? It didn't look welcoming in the slightest. More foreboding. Mother was right, for a change – what was this miracle-worker doing living and working in the heart of Whitechapel?

_Of course, he could just be a quack hoping to get a few pounds off my parents,_ he thought as they made their way up the front steps. It was the most likely option in his mind, anyway. Not for the first time Victor wished he could run away – just bolt right now and hide somewhere in the city. But his parents had been adamant about bringing him here to be treated for his "illness," and he knew better than to defy their wishes. Not to mention, in this neighborhood, running away would probably be the last thing he ever did in the Land of the Living. _Maybe, just maybe, if he fails, they'll finally leave me alone._

Nell searched for a doorbell and scowled when she didn't find one. "The way some people live," she mumbled, settling for rapping hard on the door with her knuckles. "This reminds me of _my_ childhood. I was supposed to have left all of that lower class nonsense behind."

"Give him a chance, Nell," William said, leaning on his cane. "He's reputed to be one of the best, after all."

"I know – and I suppose we've got to make sacrifices to get our boy cured," she added, shooting Victor a nasty look. Victor did his best to ignore it. "More than we've already made, anyway."

The door opened, revealing a man who appeared to be in his early forties, with a dark brown mustache and beard. He was tall, falling just short of Victor's six feet three inches, and rather bony, with sunken cheeks and deep-set eyes. He regarded them for a moment through his spectacles, then smiled. "Mr. and Mrs. Van Dort, correct?"

"That's us," William replied, smiling back. "And you are?"

"Dr. Angus Bumby," the man said, clearing the doorway. "I've been expecting you. I trust you had a pleasant trip?"

"It could have been better," Nell said, bustling in and taking in the messy front foyer with a frown. "Rather rough road in spots, and our driver's still new." She glared at Harland, bringing up the rear with Victor's luggage. "Mayhew may have always been coughing, but he knew something about how to drive with a lady on board."

"Now now, Nell, don't get all aflutter," William said, patting her arm. "As you said, Harland's new. And he can't really be blamed for the condition of the roads."

"Indeed," Dr. Bumby agreed. "If the city would send some more industrious men to work on Moorgate Station, you could have taken the Underground practically to our door."

"That would have been nice," Nell nodded, fanning herself. "But why do you have your Home in the worst part of the city? Shouldn't a doctor like you have everything he wants in the West End?"

Dr. Bumby smiled genially at her. "I find it easiest to work where the troubles are. That way we don't have to add the trauma of a move to whatever other miseries these children are suffering. Rest assured, no harm shall come to my latest patient." Looking over at Victor, he added, "Speaking of which, this must be your son." He held out a hand. "Very nice to meet you, Master Van Dort."

Victor shook it. "L-likewise, Dr. Bumby," he said, trying to keep an expression of mild disgust off his face. Dr. Bumby was one of that unfortunate breed of men cursed with naturally clammy palms. Victor felt like he was holding a fish from the cannery. "I must confess, I'm rather n-nervous. . . ."

Dr. Bumby dropped his hand, still smiling. "Don't worry. We'll have your mind cleared of unpleasant memories soon enough. I am very good at what I do." He turned back to William and Nell. "Let's discuss this more in my office. If you could just follow me. . . ."

Bumby's office proved to be on the second floor of the Home. As they walked down the upstairs hall, Victor saw a group of children playing hopscotch on a makeshift board chalked on the floor. They gave him curious looks as he passed. "You're a bit old to be living here, ain't ya?" one girl said, pigtails wagging.

"I'm only nineteen," Victor replied, feeling instantly awkward.

"Cor, you're ancient," a boy said, sniggering. "I'm only–" He paused, staring at his shoes as his mouth formed soundless words. "Ten! That's right."

Victor frowned, wondering how anyone could forget their own age – then was distracted from the question by a paper placard hung around the boy's neck, marked with a black number eight. "What's that for?" he asked, crouching to get a better look.

The boy touched the paper, making it crinkle. "Dr. Bumby gives 'em out," he said with a shrug. "We just wear 'em. Don't make no matter to us."

"Will I get one?"

"Alice doesn't have one," another boy said, looking thoughtful. "Maybe the older ones don't get numbers."

"You look half dead," the girl who'd spoken first continued, making a face at Victor. "You must be _really_ sick in the head if the doctor wants _you_."

"I'm not–"

"Victor!" Victor jerked his head up to see his mother frowning at him from around the bend. "Don't dawdle."

"That your mum?" the first boy asked as Victor moved to obey.

"Yes. . . ?"

"She's scary."

Victor wondered if he was obligated to protest. He decided he wasn't and nodded his agreement, getting a few giggles from the children and a look from his mother. "Are they all so young here?" he asked Dr. Bumby once he'd caught up, hoping to distract her from a potential lecture.

"Almost," Dr. Bumby said. "I don't usually take anyone over the age of twelve – you're one of two exceptions I've made. But don't worry – old or young, I can cure anyone." He chuckled at his near-rhyme. "Now then, take a seat, all of you."

Victor looked around. There weren't many places to sit in the office – just a fainting couch and an armchair. He took the chair, leaving his parents to settle themselves on the couch. Bumby leaned against his desk. "Now then," he began. "Mr. and Mrs. Van Dort, you said you worried your son suffered from necrophilia?"

Nell nodded, fanning herself. "At the very least, he's got an improper interest in corpses. Claims he almost married a dead bride. The worst part is, he believes she was up and walking about, like a normal person."

"I see." Dr. Bumby turned to Victor. "You believe corpses can rise from their graves?"

"It was special circumstances," Victor mumbled, not meeting the doctor's gaze. He was sick of having to explain this over and over. Especially when all it got him was a pitying look. "I woke her up with an accidental proposal. But I never – we never – it's not l-like _that_ ," he added, looking up at Dr. Bumby with pleading eyes.

Dr. Bumby regarded him impassively. "Hmm. Your parents also mentioned you said you'd seen the afterlife."

Victor nodded. "Part of it, at least. The Land of the Dead."

"Could you describe it to me?"

Victor wasn't sure he wanted to, but one look at his mother's scowling face was enough to get him talking. "Well. . .it's rather like our world, only more colorful. Everything feels a little – off kilter," he said, waggling his hand for emphasis. "But in a g-good way. And the people there are all corpses – some half rotted, some mere skeletons. All very friendly, though – at least the ones I met."

"And your corpse bride?"

"Emily," Victor said, voice softening as he pictured her face. "Her name was Emily. And she was a sweet young woman who only wanted someone to help realize her dream of being married. She frightened me at first, but once I got to know her. . . ."

"Hmmm." Dr. Bumby turned to Nell and William. "It's a very vivid fantasy world your son's created for himself. Sounds like he was trying to rid of himself of a fear of death. And a fear of marriage." He laughed quietly. "Death of his life as a carefree bachelor, perhaps?"

"I'd hardly call him _that_ – he stays in his room all the time, drawing or reading," Nell said, snapping her fan shut with a disgusted sigh. "The only time he comes out is to play the piano or chase after butterflies. He never had any friends – any that were the proper sort, at least. And taking him to a party was just asking for trouble."

"Ah – an interior child." Dr. Bumby smiled at Victor. "Maybe we can work on that too."

Nell's eyes nearly popped right out of her head. "What – you mean – make him more of a society boy?" she asked, sitting up straight. "If you could do that, it would be a miracle!"

"Hardly – just my own unique brand of psychotherapy," Dr. Bumby said, with what Victor felt was a rather arrogant smirk. "I'm quite skilled in using hypnosis to restructure the mind."

"Hypnosis?" William said, frowning. "I thought that was just a parlor trick. Entertainment."

A flash of irritation crossed Dr. Bumby's face. "Oh no, Mr. Van Dort," he said, keeping his voice level. "It's been scientifically proven to be good for more than just stage shows. I have had great success in using it to alter personalities and remove unwanted memories." He smiled again. "Why, when the children leave this home, they're practically new people."

This was about the least comforting thing Victor could have heard. He grabbed his tie, twisting it in his hands. "B-but I don't want to be a n-new person!" he protested. "I'm me!"

Nell frowned at him, then turned back to Dr. Bumby. "I don't suppose you could make him stop doing _that_ as well, could you?" she said, pointing at Victor's tie with her fan.

"I will do my best, Mrs. Van Dort," Dr. Bumby nodded. "Your son is in good hands."

Victor released his tie and slumped back in his chair as his parents and Dr. Bumby started discussing his new living arrangements. This was terrible. Not only did his parents want him to forget Emily, now they wanted to completely remold his personality. Victor had never been fond of his nervous habits before, but now he felt a compulsion to cling to them, just because they were his. _I don't want to have my mind 'restructured,'_ he thought, sighing. _I don't want to be here at all! Is it really so horrible that I want to honor Emily's memory – to remember her in the first place? If only they'd been there, and seen everything with their own two eyes – then maybe they'd understand._ He shook his head. _If only there was someone here my own age – someone I could talk to. . . ._

* * *

"Mrs. Hollows? I thought you weren't coming until Monday."

The washerwoman grinned at Alice. "My eldest is getting married on Monday – I can't miss that, now can I?" she replied, rubbing her hands together. "Not to mention I've got to get all her linens washed and ready. So I thought I'd come around early and do a quick load."

Alice nodded. "I see – congratulations," she said, offering a brief smile. "You can certainly do the children's bedclothes – let me just see if Dr. Bumby needs anything washed." She left the woman inside the back entrance, heading upstairs to the doctor's office. _I wonder if he's done with those Van Dort people,_ she thought. _Feels odd to be hosting not only someone who has parents, but someone who's the same age as me. Shouldn't a nineteen-year-old man be out on his own?_ She shrugged. _Well, so long as he isn't as much of a brat as most of the children here. . . ._

Dr. Bumby wasn't done with the family, it appeared – she could hear Mrs. Van Dort's voice as she approached the office. "He won't have to share a room with any of these children, will he?"

"Of course not, Mrs. Van Dort. Your son will have a space all to himself. Only the best for such a highly valued client."

Alice rolled her eyes. _Such a lickspittle. Well, Reggie and Ollie will be pleased._ _Though that means this fellow will almost certainly end up my neighbor – that's the only room that's free. I hope he doesn't enjoy noisy hobbies._ She knocked on the half-opened door. "Excuse me, Dr. Bumby?"

All eyes turned to her. "Oh, Alice," Dr. Bumby said. "Mr., Mrs., and Master Van Dort, this is Alice Liddell – she's another one of my patients, and a sort of general dogsbody for the Home. Alice, these are the Van Dorts. Victor here will be staying with us for a while." Victor stood when Dr. Bumby said his name – maybe he thought it was polite.

Alice nodded, twitching up her skirts in a vague approximation of a curtsy. She didn't feel like doing a proper one. "How do you do?" she asked, looking at Victor.

Victor didn't reply for a moment – just stared at her. Alice couldn't understand why. Hadn't he ever seen a girl before? Maybe he was simple on top of being mad. She took the opportunity to give him a thorough look-over. Up close, it was easy to see just how tall he really was – about a foot taller than her, she'd wager. And almost absurdly thin – Elsie had been right to say he looked like he'd snap in a stiff wind. He was also near-monochrome – white skin, black hair, and wide eyes that were so dark brown as to be almost black themselves. The effect wasn't helped by the dark grey suit he wore. What little color he had with his red vest and blue tie was all washed out. _He_ must _have walked out of a tintype_ , Alice decided. _No normal human being could be so utterly colorless._ "Hello?" she prompted him.

Victor swallowed and found his tongue. "I'm well, and y-you?" he stammered. His voice was quite soft, as if he was unused to speaking.

_He probably is,_ Alice thought, glancing over at Mrs. Van Dort and remembering the scene outside. _I'm surprised she lets anyone else talk ever._ "Well enough," she answered him. She tilted her head. For all his lack of color, he wasn't bad-looking. Not classically handsome, but certainly nicer to look at than Bumby or the children. And he seemed harmless enough. "You're a new patient then?"

Victor nodded, looking down at the ground. "Yes. I'm here because – um – it's q-quite complicated."

"I'll hear about it later, I'm sure," Alice said, deciding not to torture him by forcing him to recount his troubles. He'd probably had enough of that already. "I just needed to ask Dr. Bumby if he needed anything washed," she continued, turning back to the doctor. "The laundress has come around to do a load."

"Not at the moment," Dr. Bumby said, waving a hand. "Go help her with the children's linens."

"Very good, Doctor." Alice turned to leave, then paused and looked back at Victor. He was still staring at the floor, fiddling with his fingers and looking terribly nervous and shy. _This is probably one of the worst days of his life,_ she thought with a little sigh. _I suppose I should at least_ try _to be friendly._ She offered him just the faintest hint of a smile. "Welcome to Houndsditch, Master Van Dort."

Victor looked up, brightening just a tad. "Thank you," he replied with a half-smile of his own.

Alice nodded and went on her way. _All right – that's my good deed for the day,_ she decided. _Now to strip those beds. Ollie better not have wet his again._


	2. A Fine Mess

April 9th, 1875

Whitechapel, London's East End, England

12:04 P.M.

Eventually, everything was worked out to everyone but Victor's satisfaction. Harland moved Victor's luggage into a room on the ground floor, ignoring Nell's barbs about how he was thumping them around and probably destroying Victor's belongings. William and Nell thanked Dr. Bumby again, gave him some money, and politely declined staying for lunch. (Well, William did – Nell just looked shocked Dr. Bumby would even consider asking them to eat there.) Nell ordered Victor to behave and let the doctor do his work, while William reassured his son that all would be well if he'd just cooperate. Then, with a final round of goodbyes and a brief pause to shove Nell into the carriage, the elder Van Dorts departed back to Burtonsville. Victor watched their carriage leave from the front steps. _I am officially stuck here,_ he thought with a melancholy sigh. _Well – nothing to do but try and make the best of it, I suppose._

He went and took a look around his new room. It was about as welcoming as the rest of the Home. The air had a stale, musty smell that made him sneeze. The wallpaper was a dingy green, and peeling in the corners. There were only three pieces of furniture – a metal-framed bed with a lumpy mattress, a linen press that suffered from woodworm, and a nightstand with a mysterious stain running down the side. And everything from ceiling to floor was coated with dust. Victor felt a pang for his room back in Burtonsville. How could anyone live like this?

 _Of course, it's not like Dr. Bumby can afford a legion of servants,_ he reminded himself, opening the first of his suitcases. _I should be more surprised the rest of the house doesn't look this bad. Goodness, I_ am _spoiled, aren't I? Hopefully it won't show too much._

He put his suits, shirts, and socks in the linen press, and his sketchbook, ink, and quills on the nightstand. He left the few books he'd brought with him in his trunk – he'd find a place for them later. Then he came to a problem. He'd carefully packed some of his favorite drawings to hang up around his new residence, in an effort to prevent homesickness. But now it occurred to him that he had no idea if Dr. Bumby allowed his patients to do such a thing. He looked at the walls, then at the drawing in his hands. Would Dr. Bumby really disapprove of him trying to make his room look a bit more cheerful? He didn't want to start off on the wrong foot with the man. . . .

"So we are neighbors."

Victor started, just barely avoiding crumpling his sketch of a _Papilio machaon_. The young lady he'd met before – _Alice, that's right_ – was standing in his doorway, assessing him and his belongings with a rather bland look. "I thought we would be," she continued. "I do hope you don't snore – the walls here are thin."

"I, ah, I d-don't think I do. . . ." Goodness, she really _did_ have the brightest green eyes he'd ever seen. Victor wished they'd stop distracting him. He'd already made himself look like a fool in front of her back in Dr. Bumby's office because he couldn't stop staring at them. But they were just so piercing. . .and quite pretty, if he was honest with himself. . . .

"Good," Alice said, pulling him out of his near-trance. "Lunch will be ready shortly, if you're hungry." She turned to go.

It came to Victor that she might be able to answer his question. "Wait! J-just a moment, please?"

Alice paused and looked back at him. Victor held up his sketch. "Would the doctor object if I hung things on my walls?"

"He's never objected to me hanging things on mine," Alice replied, turning to face him properly. "Would you like me to fetch you some pins?"

"Would you please?" Victor asked, trying to smile. "I h-hate to order you about–"

"Being ordered about is my _job_ ," Alice said, a faint smirk pulling at her lips. "Not to mention I was the one to offer. But I appreciate the sentiment, Master Van Dort, even if it is unwarranted. I'll be right back."

She left, leaving Victor feeling like an idiot all over again. "Uuuhh. . .I shouldn't even try to talk to girls," he mumbled, laying his sketches across his bed. "It never goes well."

Alice returned after a couple of minutes, carrying a small box of pins. Victor thanked her and began pressing his drawings against the walls, searching for the spots where they'd look best. Alice lingered nearby, her eyes traveling over the rows of paper waiting to be hung. "You seem to be fond of butterflies," she remarked, nodding at a picture of a Dingy Skipper sitting on a rose.

Victor blushed, but nodded himself. "I know it's not very m-manly of me, but I like them quite a bit," he said, pinning one of his favorite drawings – the sketch he'd made of the butterfly he'd caught right before meeting Emily – right above his bed. "I s-study them, in fact. As a hobby."

"An amateur lepidopterologist, hmm?"

Victor stopped and stared at her, surprised. "Why – yes! Do forgive me, I didn't think you knew the word. Most people don't."

There was that faint smirk again. "My father taught it to me," Alice explained. "He was the dean of Christ Church at the University of Oxford, so he knew all sorts of long, unusual words."

"Oh, I see." Victor pinned up the Dingy Skipper over a rip in the wallpaper. "I wanted to go to university when I was younger, but Father didn't think it necessary," he added, feeling he ought to try and make conversation. He'd be living right next to this young lady, after all. "Said I could get all the education I wanted from the cannery."

"Cannery?" Something seemed to click in Alice's mind. "That's why you had the fish on your carriage! You're the canned fish people!"

"That's us," Victor confirmed. "Be grateful Father didn't try to badger you into buying his product while he was here."

Alice hummed. "From what I understand, your family has more money than you know what to do with." She leaned against the wall and folded her arms. "Couldn't your parents afford to hire a better psychiatrist?"

"They did," Victor said, unable to help the bitterness leaking into his voice. "Dr. Bumby is more or less the last resort. I refused to talk to anyone else."

"Oh." Now Alice's smirk was anything but faint. "Don't believe you're mad?"

Victor frowned at her. "No, actually. Do you?"

"You must be," Alice informed him. "Or else you wouldn't have come here." For just a moment, she suddenly looked rather sad. Then she resumed her former expression of bland indifference, standing up straight. "I'll leave you to it. As I said, lunch will be served very soon."

"Thank you." Victor watched her as she left. He wasn't sure what to make of her yet. She was quite attractive (especially with those eyes), and obviously intelligent, but. . .she also seemed to be rather aloof. Not cruel, necessarily – just uncaring. Like she didn't want to get close to anyone. He wondered why.

 _It's none of my business,_ he told himself, turning back to the wall and pinning another sketch. _I'm not the psychiatrist. Though it would be nice if we could be friends. . .if I can even be friends with a young lady without making a mess of things._ A surprising thought struck him then – _I've just had an unchaperoned, unrelated woman in my room! That's a first. Good thing Mother wasn't around to see that, she'd be furious. Then again – isn't Alice a servant of sorts? That's what dogsbody means, I believe. . . . Really, it doesn't matter much after my escapade with Victoria. If Mother had learned about_ that _, I'd already be back in the Land of the Dead._ He sighed, running a hand over his face. _Of course, I'd rather be_ there _than_ here _. . .just let me avoid the local Gordon Tannens, and I'll be set. Hopefully._

He finished hanging his pictures, then went to join the others for lunch. The children were already all seated around the table – Victor recognized a few from the upstairs hopscotch game. For some reason, they gave him rather evil grins as he sat. "Hello," he greeted them, trying to smile.

"Hello," the boy next to him, the one with the number eight, said. "When are you gonna visit the local cemetery?"

Victor's jaw dropped. "What – how – w-why do you–"

"We was listening outside the door for a bit," the girl who'd been teasing him earlier said, smirking. "You like dead people, eh?"

"No! Not like that!" Victor protested, cheeks burning. Oh God – he'd been here a hour, two at the most, and already the mockery was starting. Had it been too much to hope that he could keep this between himself and Dr. Bumby?

"No? Then what was all that talk about you marrying a dead woman?" the girl replied, leaning forward with a horrible smile.

"It's – it's f-far more complicated than you t-think!"

"Oh, we don't think so at all," the girl said, playing with a pigtail as the others laughed. "Was it a nice honeymoon?"

To Victor's relief, Dr. Bumby chose that moment to come in with a large pot. "Now children," the psychiatrist scolded, frowning hard at the crowd, "it's wrong to eavesdrop. And you shouldn't make fun of Master Van Dort for his delusions." Alice came in behind him, carrying a basket of misshapen rolls. "After all, all of you have your own problems."

"Yeah, well, none of us is hoping the girl ain't breathing on our wedding night," the boy with the eight pointed out.

Alice stopped and stared at Victor. "Beg pardon?"

"He likes dead women!" the girl with the pigtails piped up before Victor could say a word. "Tried to propose to one!"

Alice arched an eyebrow. "Did he?"

"No! It was a-an accident! And I'm not – I n-never. . ." Great – now the one person he might have been able to actually talk to knew all about his supposed "appetites." Victor put his face in his hands as the children giggled around him. _I wish I could just sink into the floor._

"Lunch is not the appropriate venue to discuss this," Dr. Bumby said firmly, putting down his pot in the center of the table. "I expect all of you to be polite to our new patient. You wouldn't like it if he made fun of you, would you?"

There were a few murmurs from the children along the lines of "suppose not." Dr. Bumby nodded. "Fine. Let us eat. Alice, if you would serve?"

Lunch turned out to be soup – chicken noodle, Victor supposed, by the yellow color and smell. Alice ladled it into bowls for everyone, then passed around the basket of rolls. Victor looked at his portion. It wasn't very appetizing – the soup had a greasy sheen on top, and there didn't seem to be much to it other than cloudy broth, limp noodles, minuscule shreds of carrot, and one or two lonely pieces of chicken. He tasted a spoonful – the flavor was more salt than poultry. The roll was hard as a rock, and there was no butter to go with it.

Still, it was food, and he was hungry. Victor finished the soup within minutes, then followed the example of his neighbors and used his roll to wipe up the last few drops of broth from the bowl. A long drink of water washed the salty taste from his mouth. He waited patiently as Alice cleared the table, but as the children started getting up, it dawned on him that there would be no other courses. "I'm afraid we won't be able to keep you in as much comfort as you're used to," Dr. Bumby apologized, getting to his feet. "Most of the money I earn has to go into keeping the orphanage in habitable condition. There's little left over for luxuries."

"I understand, sir," Victor said, fiddling with his fingers and not meeting the doctor's eyes. "I'll g-get used to it in time."

"I'm sure you will." Dr. Bumby patted Victor's shoulder. "As it is, you can have the rest of the day to explore and get yourself settled. We won't start your therapy until tomorrow."

That was a relief. Victor had no desire to dive straight into being told his memories of the Land of the Dead were "unproductive." "Thank you, Doctor," he said gratefully.

"You're welcome," Dr. Bumby nodded, smiling. "And don't worry so much. You're in very good hands, I assure you."

Victor unconsciously moved back. Was it just him, or was there something _off_ about that smile? "I h-hope so."

Dr. Bumby patted his shoulder again, then left. Victor lingered at the table for a moment, trying to figure out what had disturbed him so about Bumby's grin. The man was being nothing but friendly. . .maybe it was just the stress of knowing that same man was determined to wipe Emily's memory from his mind. _What I need is some time with my sketchbook,_ he decided. _That should settle my nerves a bit – and help me ignore my stomach,_ he added as his belly growled. _Later I'll have to see if any place around here sells something I can snack on between meals. This just won't do if I expect to keep what little weight I have._

Most of the children had vanished back upstairs by the time he reentered the hall, but a few lingered by the door to the toilet, chatting aimlessly. They snickered as he passed them. "We look forward to meeting the new missus!" one called with a sharp-toothed smile. "Get one that still has some flesh on her!"

Victor winced and bolted for his room, shutting the door hard behind him. _They're just children,_ he told himself, plopping onto his bed. _It's nothing to get upset over. They probably don't even know exactly what they're accusing you of._

Such thoughts didn't help. Even if they didn't know, _he_ did, and it hurt. Sighing, he picked up his sketchbook and quill, picturing his favorite butterfly in his mind in an attempt to chase away the bad feelings.

A knock on the door interrupted him before he could even put pen to paper. Letting out a deep, frustrated sigh, he set his things aside. "Five minutes of privacy would be nice," he grumbled, getting up and opening the door.

Alice was standing there, frowning. "Is it true, what they're saying?" she asked immediately, arms folded. "You really tried to marry a dead woman?"

"Yes, but I – it's n-not what you think, I swear," Victor said, his hands going for his tie. "I never – the w-wedding _n-n-nnnight_ never came up!"

"So what was the reason behind the proposal?"

Victor wondered if he should tell her or not. If anything would convince her that he was bonkers. . . . Then he realized that the children probably already knew that side of it as well, if they'd been eavesdropping. Better for her to hear it from him than them. "I didn't mean to actually propose. Emily, my c-corpse bride, misinterpreted what I was doing. You see, I was practicing my vows – my parents had arranged a marriage for me, and the rehearsal hadn't gone well – and I slipped the ring onto what I _thought_ was a branch, and – she – well – she rose from her grave to accept."

Alice's eyes widened. "Rose from – wait, are you saying you brought someone _back from the dead_?" she whispered, her arms falling to her sides.

"By accident!" Victor said quickly, not wanting her to think he was the evil necromancer Pastor Galswells insisted he was either. "I certainly didn't expect to have some poor m-murdered bride dig herself out of the ground and proclaim us man and–"

"The dead can't get up and walk!" Alice snapped, her face turning red as her hands bunched into fists. "Dead's dead!"

Victor stepped backward, startled by her change in mood. "W-well, under normal circumstances, yes, of course," he tried to explain. "But Emily had made a vow to rise and c-claim anyone who proposed." _Goodness, why is she getting so angry about this? Disgust I could understand, or confusion – but anger?_ "At least, I think that's how it worked. . . ."

"I'm sure," Alice said, sarcasm dripping off every syllable. She folded her arms again and glared at him through narrowed eyes. "Did you bring her back home to meet your parents? Or did she drag you off to the afterlife to meet hers, maggots and all?"

"Actually, something closer to the latter," Victor replied, feeling his own temper start to rise. Did she really have to mock him? "More to meet her friends – maggots and all."

"So now you're claiming to have seen what comes next as well?! You _are_ mad! And incredibly rude to boot!"

"It's the truth!" Victor snapped. Some small part of him was horrified about getting so short with a lady, but after the morning he'd had, being called a liar yet _again_ was wearing very thin on his nerves. "I don't care what anyone says – I know what happened to me! I've been to the afterlife – and to be honest, it's much nicer than this world!"

"That's not hard," Alice pointed out, teeth clenched. "How can you make such – such _ludicrous_ claims? Raising the dead, visiting the afterlife – did you ever think that spreading around such _lies_ might be hurtful to those of us who have _lost_ our families?"

Victor's reply died on his tongue. Oh God, that was right – Father had told him this place was an orphanage. He was surrounded by people – children – who had lost the ones they loved the most. He hadn't even considered the effect his story might have on them. His anger cooled, replaced by horrified embarrassment. "I – I d-didn't–" he started, trying to find the right words to apologize.

"No, you probably don't think at all," Alice cut him off with an angry huff. "Good day, Master Van Dort." She spun on her heel and stalked away. A moment later, Victor heard her door slam.

The children at the end of the hall laughed again. "Ooooh, you're gonna get it now," a girl called. "She's gonna come after you with a spoon and gouge your eyes out!"

"She'll need a big spoon for that," a boy commented.

"Nah, it's Alice," a second boy said. "She could kill somebody with just a pencil."

Victor ignored them, pulling his own door closed and letting his forehead bang against it. "Ninny," he mumbled. "You've made a proper mess of it this time. She probably doesn't even want to _look_ at you anymore. How could you be so thoughtless?"

Sighing, he turned around and looked back at his sketchbook. For a moment, he considered picking up his pen again. Surely drawing some butterflies would make him feel better? Then he shook his head and put it away. No – he wasn't in the mood anymore. He collapsed on his bed and stared up at the ceiling. _Well – I wonder how much worse things can get from here?_


	3. A Nighttime Reconciliation

April 10th, 1875

Whitechapel, London's East End, England

1:57 A.M.

_I really should have expected this._

Victor sighed, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. Of course his insomnia would be worse than usual tonight. He never slept well in strange places (not that he slept much better in his own room most nights. . .). And it didn't help that his new bed felt just as uncomfortable as it looked. _At least Miss Liddell_ _doesn't have to put up with me snoring._

He got up and lit a candle, watching the shadows dance away from the tiny flame. Now, how to fill the hours until exhaustion finally conquered his mind? He could draw, he supposed, but he still didn't feel in the mood. There was the piano he'd spotted in the front foyer – music always managed to soothe him. But he doubted the other inhabitants of the house would appreciate him playing at two in the morning. _Perhaps a cup of tea would help,_ he thought, putting on his dressing gown. _That porridge we had for dinner was awfully thin. . ._ .

His stomach growled its agreement. Victor chuckled, then ventured out into the hall. Part of him felt a little exposed, wandering around the Home in his pajamas, but he felt safe in the knowledge that it was the middle of the night. Who else would be up?

He got his answer as he opened the kitchen door and found Alice Liddell there, preparing the kettle in what was unmistakably her nightgown. "Oh! Oh, I'm s-so sorry," he babbled, spinning around so he wouldn't see her in her state of undress. Having her in his room fully-clothed was one thing – seeing her in a public space like _this_ was quite another! "I shouldn't – we s-shouldn't–"

"Oh, stop that," Alice said with a tired sigh. "You're acting like you caught me naked. I don't think we can see any more of each other than we could before, besides perhaps our feet."

"But – but we're in our n-night things!"

"And it's night. Your point?"

Victor frowned. "Do you respond to everything with sarcasm?"

"Yes. Helps me keep whatever sanity I have left." Well, Victor couldn't fault her for being honest. "Did you want a cup of tea?"

"Ah – w-well, yes," he admitted, peeking over his shoulder.

"Sit down, then. Or, better yet, search the cupboard and see if there's anything in there besides those horrible digestive biscuits."

Victor moved to obey, sneaking a glance at Alice as he did. She was right, he supposed – her nightgown resembled the dress she'd been wearing earlier, only with a longer skirt. The only parts of her that were exposed _were_ her feet. He found himself staring at them for a moment. They seemed a bit larger than they ought to be for a girl her size. Then he became aware of the impropriety of what he was doing and quickly looked away, blushing.

"Afraid of my feet, Master Van Dort?" Alice said, and he swore he could _hear_ her smirk. "I'm more astonished by yours. How do you stay balanced on ones so small?"

"I stay balanced?" Victor mumbled, recalling all the times he'd tripped or stumbled over thin air.

". . .Was that a joke?" Alice sounded genuinely surprised. "You don't seem the type."

"I'm not," Victor said, opening the cupboard door and taking a look inside. There wasn't much to see – a few bottles of condiments, some boxes of dry porridge mix, and the digestive biscuits Alice had mentioned. Though there seemed to be something on the topmost shelf, just above eye level. . . . He reached up and found a tin of chocolate-dipped biscuits. "Unless it's about myself. . .will these do?" he added, holding them up.

Alice turned her head. "Aha! I _knew_ he had his own private box! He wouldn't eat the same swill we do unless he had to. Probably counted on me never finding it because I'm too short." She half-smiled at him. "You are good for something."

Hearing that reminded Victor of their earlier argument. He dropped his eyes to the floor. "Miss L-Liddell, I'm t-truly sorry for upsetting you earlier," he said, turning the tin round and round in his hands. "I didn't mean to, I p-promise. You were right in saying I wasn't thinking about how t-that might sound to – to others like yourself."

"It's all right," Alice told him, shaking her head. "I probably overreacted a little. I shouldn't have gone prying like I did, not when I was sure I wouldn't like the answer." She fiddled with her skirt. "It's just that – the death of my family still hurts quite a bit."

"I am so s-sorry," Victor reiterated. "For whatever reason, the fact that you were p-probably an orphan didn't occur to me until you said it."

"Well, you're new, and you only know me as the maid," Alice replied. "I should have remembered that. As it is, I'm sorry for shouting. You and your – 'adventures' – seem perfectly harmless."

"If only my parents believed that," Victor sighed, setting the tin down and leaning against the counter. "I do wish they'd just listened to Dr. Wilson and left me alone. . . ."

Alice, pouring the freshly-hot water into the teapot, paused. "Dr. Wilson?" she repeated. "Not – Dr. Hieronymous Wilson?"

Victor lifted his head, startled. "Yes! You know him?"

"In a sense. He was the head doctor at the–" She hesitated a moment, then plunged on. "– the asylum I was in."

"Asylum?!" Victor's jaw dropped. "What – why were – no, no, I s-shouldn't pry," he cut himself off. "It's your business, I d-don't want to upset you again–"

"What are you doing with your hands?"

Victor looked down to find he was attempting to throttle an invisible tie. "Sorry," he said for what felt like the hundredth time, putting his hands behind his back. "N-nervous habit. I sometimes grab my tie when – er. . . ."

"Whenever you have an attack of nerves," Alice filled in, smirking. "Which seems to be every five minutes."

Victor lowered his eyes again. "I – it's j-just – so much has happened, and I – maybe I s-should just go back to bed," he mumbled, turning around.

"No," Alice said, catching him by the sleeve. "I've already got tea on for two, and you could probably use a cup, so you're staying and having something to drink. And I'm not upset at you for asking about the asylum, if that's what's got you all in a tizzy. Knowing this place, you'll hear about my time at Rutledge from either me or the children – and it's much better if you hear it from me." She pointed at a chair. "Go sit, and bring the biscuits with you."

"Won't Dr. Bumby be mad if we eat from his private tin?" Victor asked.

"Maybe, but I'm willing to risk it. And he might make allowances if you tell him you were the one to eat some. Rich boy and all."

Victor hesitated, then sat himself at the table with the biscuits. "Do I come off as spoiled to you?" he asked, suddenly needing to know what she really thought of him.

"I wouldn't say so – though I haven't gotten to know you all that well yet," Alice said, getting a tray ready. "And if you do – well, you are, aren't you? No way around it."

Victor sighed. "I just – I don't want to upset people."

"Better they don't like you for being rich than not like you for being mad," Alice replied, bringing over the teapot, cups, and saucers. "When you're rich, you can pay people to be civil." A little searching on her part produced sugar and milk. "When you're mad, all you can do is ignore the funny looks." She poured tea, then looked up at him. "Though I suppose you can do that if you're rich too, and can afford not to care what others think."

Victor nodded. "That's what I had to do back in Burtonsville, after the – i-incident. Though I did care." He took his cup, poured in a generous amount of milk, then added three spoonfuls of sugar. "At least here most people won't know about that."

"Well, they won't know the specifics," Alice said, stealing the milk back from him. "They'll pick up that you live at Houndsditch. They'll give you funny looks just for that. More so if they realize who you are." She frowned as she tipped half a spoonful of sugar into her tea. "Incidentally, you'll want to keep a close eye on your wallet. This is not a nice part of the city."

"I know," Victor assured her. "Our carriage got some stares."

"Well, of course it did. Not only was it almost certainly the nicest carriage in the East End, it's also got a fish mounted on the top."

Victor shrugged. "Father likes to advertise." He sipped his tea as Alice opened the biscuit tin, wondering how to start what was sure to be an awkward conversation. "S-so – ah – you were in the a-asylum Dr. Wilson used to run?" he blurted.

"Ten long years," Alice confirmed, tracing patterns on the table with her fingernail. "They only released me last November."

"Ten years?" Victor repeated, puzzled. "But – you don't look any older than I am. How old are you?"

"Nineteen," Alice said with a little shrug.

"Nineteen?! So – wait – you were admitted to the asylum as – as a _c-child_?!" Victor gasped. "Who puts a child into one of those places?!"

Alice blinked and frowned at him. "Well – they had to, I think. I wasn't–" She stopped, then held up a hand. "Let me start at the beginning. When I was eight years old, my house burnt down. My parents and sister died in the blaze – I was the only one who made it out. The shock and horror of it was so great that I – I just shut down. I wouldn't react to anyone or anything. Catatonia, they called it. I spent a year in Littlemore Infirmary recovering from my burns, then they brought me to Rutledge. I don't think they knew what else to do with me."

"Didn't you have any other family?"

Alice shook her head. "My grandparents had all died, and I don't have any aunts or uncles. And my old nanny couldn't support me without a job. It was Rutledge or nothing." She swirled her tea. "I wasn't the only child there – there was a whole gaggle of them in my wing. Young children go mad all the time, it seems."

Victor grimaced, his stomach gurgling its displeasure with this news. "That's horrible. Children shouldn't be condemned to asylums. It's not right."

"Then what do you suppose we do with insane children? We can't just let them wander around and cause trouble."

"I – I don't know, but–" Victor made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. "It just doesn't seem fair."

"Life isn't fair," Alice replied, looking him dead in the eye. "You should know that – your parents dumped you here, didn't they?"

Victor winced. "Yes, but – I'm nineteen. The world should be fair for young children."

That got a nod. "If only, Master Van Dort, if only." Alice took a long drink from her cup, then snagged a biscuit from the tin. "I won't give you the details of my stay – they'd just make you ill. But after a decade of mental anguish, I finally managed to get myself back together. Well, back together _enough_ ," she corrected herself, scowling. "If you see me talking to something invisible, it means one of my hallucinations has decided to bother me again. Fair warning."

"Hallucinations?" Victor frowned, thinking back to his one pleasant psychiatric session. "Dr. Wilson said they'd released people from Rutledge who were in worse shape than me. . . ."

Alice snorted. "Yes, he probably meant me. You needn't worry too much – I almost always know they're not real. They're more frustrating than anything else. I just thought I'd better tell you before you had one of your 'I'm going to strangle myself' fits."

"I've never actually done that," Victor protested.

"Don't start. I don't want to come into your room and find you dead by tie. How would I write your obituary?" She took another sip of tea. "Anyway, I came here to Houndsditch because Dr. Bumby expressed an interest in helping me, and I really didn't have any other place to go."

"Do you like it here?" Victor asked, giving into temptation and trying a biscuit. It was miles better than any of the other food he'd had today – he had to resist the urge to devour it in one bite.

Alice shrugged. "The children can be bratty, and Dr. Bumby a bit of an arse at times, but it's much better than living on the street. Or being one of Jack Splatter's girls." She shuddered and bit a large chunk out of her biscuit. "Now you know the horrible truth. You've got a room next to a madwoman who spent ten years in an asylum. Ready to run screaming into the night?"

"The last time I fled somewhere into the night, I got pulled into the underworld," Victor said, then grimaced. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to–"

"What's it like?"

Victor blinked. Alice was watching him steadily, and she didn't look angry at all. More intrigued. "P-pardon?"

"What's this afterlife of yours like?" she repeated. "I may as well know if you've dreamed up something I wouldn't mind my parents and sister being in." She smirked. "Curiosity's always been my weakness."

Victor looked down into his tea, considering his words carefully. "Well then. . .it's – it's colorful. Like all the reds and greens and purples that are missing from our world have bled down into the World Below. Almost every place Above has some sort of counterpart Below, but it's – crooked. Off-kilter. Everything's slowly decaying away, but – it's – it's _right_ , somehow. And the people. . .w-well, they're all rotting corpses – some of the ones I met were no more than skeletons. But they're still _people_. They talk and laugh and sing and – and clap you on the back and offer you a drink," he said, smiling at the memories. "It doesn't matter if you're a loved one or a stranger – they welcome you unconditionally. Everyone did their best to make me feel right at home after my accidental proposal." He chuckled. "You should have seen the wedding preparations they put up for Emily and me – the cake was the size of a small carriage."

Alice's eyes widened. "What did it taste like?" she asked, leaning forward eagerly.

"I never got a chance to taste it – and I don't think you would have liked it," Victor told her, amused. He would have never guessed she'd take such an interest in pastry. "One of the ingredients was a nose off one of the chefs."

Alice made a face. "That's simply awful! Why would they bake a nose into a cake?"

"They have different ideas of what's good food down there," Victor shrugged. "But it was still a lovely gesture. I know it was more for Emily than for me, but. . . ." He sighed wistfully. "You know what the best way to describe the Land of the Dead is? _Fun_. Nobody cares for propriety and things like that. They just want to be happy and have a good time – and to make sure everyone around them is doing the same."

What looked like the beginnings of a genuine smile tugged at Alice's lips. "It does sound nice," she admitted, finishing off her biscuit. "A bit like Wonderland."

"Wonderland?"

"My childhood playland," Alice said, blushing a faint pink. "Some children have imaginary friends – I had an entire imaginary _world_."

"Really! I made do with my reflection in the mirror," Victor said, leaning forward. "What was it like, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Nonsensical," Alice said, this time with a fond, faraway look. "Talking flowers, cats that grinned, rabbits that were eternally late, living cards and chess pieces, drinks and cakes that made you shrink to the size of a mouse or grow to the size of a mountain. . .it was delightful." She sighed, her face dropping into sadness and regret. "If only it had stayed that way."

"What happened?" Victor couldn't help but ask. It was so strange – for a moment, Alice had almost looked _cheerful_.

"When I went mad, it – didn't weather the experience well," Alice said, not looking at him. "I did my best to fix things, but–" She shook her head. "I'm worried it won't stay fixed. That it _can't_ stay fixed."

"I'm sorry," Victor said, for lack of anything better.

"You always say that," Alice said, but she didn't sound all that annoyed. "You needn't apologize for what's not your fault. But thank you just the same, I suppose." She drained the last of her tea, and got up. "I'm going back to bed. Can you put the biscuits away?"

"Of course." Victor closed the tin and put it back on its shelf as Alice washed the cups. "Thank you for – um – n-not staying angry at me," he added, fiddling with his fingers.

"Thank you for sitting up with me," Alice replied, wiping her hands dry on a rag. "It's not often I get decent conversation in this place." She smirked at him. "I'm not sure what to make of your afterlife yet, mind. But if you are mad, at least you have a much better form of madness than I have."

Victor shook his head. "You don't have to believe me – I've made my peace with the fact no one will."

"You didn't sound like you had before."

"I know, I'm sorry – if you'll excuse me saying that again. I was just so irritated with the children knowing and making fun of me. . . ." Victor's shoulders slumped. "I just hope I don't have to stay here long. I don't need therapy – it's not like I'd tell just any stranger on the street. I'd be perfectly happy keeping it all to myself from now on."

"Well then, let us hope Dr. Bumby quickly gets sick of you and insists on kicking you out," Alice said, folding her arms. "Which isn't likely, but the impossible sometimes happens."

Victor nodded with a chuckle. "Heh– when you've seen a young woman in a wedding dress claw her way out of the earth before you and declare you her husband, you know it can. Good night, Miss Liddell."

"Oh, call me Alice," Alice replied. "I haven't been called Miss Liddell in ages."

Victor nearly said something about how improper that was, but decided against it. He'd been calling two other women by their first names for some time now. What was a third? "All right – Alice," he said. "And you can call me Victor."

"I can, but will I?" Alice teased. "Then again, it's easier to say than Master Van Dort. So – good night, Victor."

"Good night, Alice." With a little wave, Victor exited the kitchen. _Well – I think that was just what I needed,_ he thought, walking back to his room. _It's good to know she really doesn't hate me. I just hope I can keep it that way._ He stifled a yawn. _Right now, though, I just hope I'll finally be able to get some sleep._


	4. Expository Wall Washing

April 10th, 1875

Whitechapel, London's East End, England

1:58 P.M.

"I do hope you're more cooperative during our next session, Master Van Dort."

Alice, in the middle of scrubbing the hallway wall, stopped and poked her head around the bend. Victor was emerging from Dr. Bumby's office, rubbing his forehead and grimacing. The psychiatrist stood behind him, glowering over folded arms. "Your parents are relying on me to cure you," he added. "I'm sure you don't want to disappoint them."

"No, sir," Victor said, his tone suggesting he really just wanted Dr. Bumby to stop lecturing him. "When is our next session?"

"This same time next week – if I don't decide you need another one earlier." Dr. Bumby turned and yanked the door closed. Victor looked back a moment, then sighed and walked away, shaking his head.

Alice met him as he rounded the corner. "I take it your first session didn't go well."

Victor frowned at her, face full of mingled pain and frustration. "Are you _supposed_ to come out of hypnosis with a headache?"

"I don't _think_ so, but I often wake up from one of my sessions feeling like my skull's about to burst," Alice said, nodding sympathetically. "What happened?"

"We talked about what he wanted to do – well, _he_ talked, I listened – and then he h-hypnotized me." Victor turned his gaze toward the wall, one hand adjusting the knot of his tie. "I was hoping it wouldn't work at first – that he'd have to declare me a failure and send me back home. Then. . .I don't know. He just kept going on and on about relaxing, and before I knew it, my eyes had closed and my head had gone all fuzzy. . . ." A ghost of a smile appeared on his face. "It – it was sort of nice, actually."

A sharp pang of jealousy went through Alice. "It hasn't felt nice to me for ages. I take it things changed the moment he started actual therapy, however."

Victor nodded, turning back to her with a grimace. "Oh yes. He asked me about Emily again, then told me almost before I'd stopped that she wasn't real and that I had to forget her. I told him no, and he – he d-didn't like that."

"So you had a bit of a fight?" Alice guessed.

"I suppose you could call it that," Victor agreed. "He told me to forget again, I told him no again, and it went back and forth like that until he woke me up. And now I feel like my brain's trying to leak out my ears," he added, wincing and pressing his fingers against his temple.

"The price we pay to remember," Alice said, shaking her head. "I have to ask – wouldn't it be easier if you just went along with it? You'd get out of here quicker, at the very least."

The glare Victor shot her told her immediately that she'd said something stupid. "Emily doesn't deserve to be forgotten. That poor girl was _murdered_ – by someone who professed to love her, no less. All for a few coins and some jewelry. And I have no idea how long she spent waiting in the Land of the Dead, hoping and praying that just maybe. . . ." He looked at the floor. "I helped set her free. I can't just forget she existed. Why would I want to?"

"Because holding onto those memories landed you here?" Alice pointed out.

"I don't care! I'm not giving them up – ow!" Victor winced again, then took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Look, I understand nobody believes me about it, but it's not like I plan to parade through the streets telling people I m-married a corpse and saw the afterlife. If everyone would just leave me alone. . . ."

It was the broken note in his voice that got to her – that painful crack that made it sound like he was about to cry. "I'm sorry," Alice said, twisting her sponge in her hands as guilt stabbed at her insides. Well, he'd made her good and angry yesterday – now they were even. "I shouldn't have said anything. They're your memories, you can do what you like with them. I'm just in favor of getting rid of the ones that hurt."

"That's just it, Alice – they _don't_ hurt. My memories of the World Below are some of the nicest I have. And seeing Emily move on. . . ." Victor smiled, lifting his head toward the ceiling. "I used to be rather frightened of death, but now I don't fear it at all. What comes after is worth dying for."

"I can't deny you sold me on your vision of the afterlife last night," Alice admitted. A world of color, freedom, and fun. . .her parents and Lizzie would probably love it down there. Lizzie especially. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes as she thought about her sister – although they'd been separated by ten years, Lizzie had always been there for her. Listening to her stories, playing games with her, even trusting her with her deepest secrets. Alice had once told her that she wanted to grow up to be just like her – Lizzie had laughed and replied that she should grow up to be just like Alice instead. "I think one of me is enough for this world – and I want to see what you'll be like when you're my age." _Oh Lizzie, if only you could. . .but then again, would you be disappointed with what I've become?_

She pulled her mind away from that depressing line of thought. This was exactly why she wanted to forget that damnable fire. She was sure she'd be much happier just _knowing_ something bad had happened to her family, instead of _remembering_ it. At the very least, it would mean less nightmares to haunt her. And hopefully fewer hallucinations too. _Why do these terrible visions insist on making themselves at home in my head?_

"Alice?"

Alice blinked to find Victor leaning over her, looking concerned. "You, ah, seemed to drift away for a moment there. . . ."

"Sorry – I was thinking," Alice said vaguely, not wanting to burden Victor with her gloomy musings. Besides, she had a question for him. "I don't think you explained that 'setting free' business last night. What's that all about?"

"To be honest – I'm not sure myself," Victor confessed with an awkward smile. "Elder Gutknecht – he was one of the people I met down there, everyone seemed to consider him very learned – said such things weren't for mortal ears. But I think I helped free her from old regrets and pain. Helped her cast off everything that was holding her back."

"So the Land of the Dead's not all there is?"

Victor shrugged. "I assume not. I can't be sure. Emily's passing on was a bit – unusual."

Alice tilted her head. "How? What happened to her?"

A faraway look came into Victor's eyes. "She gave me my ring back, walked down the aisle to the church doors, threw her bouquet to Victoria, smiled at us one last time. . .and then dissolved into dozens of blue butterflies, fluttering up to the moon."

Alice tried to picture someone dissolving into butterflies. That was a peculiar image, even for someone used to Wonderland and its particular brand of nonsense. "And – that was a good thing?"

"She seemed happy," Victor said, coming back to the present. "And there was an air of – _peace_ about the whole business. Whatever happened, it was meant to happen. I just don't know if the butterflies meant she went to Heaven, or – or if she literally _became_ butterflies. Merged with nature, in a way."

Alice considered the possibilities. _Transcending this world for another. . .or becoming even more a part of this one. . . ._ "I think I like the second one better," she confessed.

"Really?"

She nodded. "That makes it sound like those we love never truly leave us." She favored Victor with a rare genuine smile. "It makes me feel like my parents and sister might still be with me."

Victor smiled back. He had a nice smile, Alice had to say. Pity it didn't seem to come out often. Then again, he was probably like her in that he didn't usually find a lot to smile about. "That's true. I'm glad you can find comfort in it." His eyes flicked down to the sponge, as if noticing it for the first time. "Oh, I'm keeping you from your work. . . ."

"It's fine," she assured him, turning back to what remained of the crayon scribbles on the wall. "I'd rather talk to you than scrub the wallpaper. But I'm sure you're eager to go do something else."

"Um. . .well. . . ." There was a moment of silence, in which Alice pictured him playing with his tie again. ". . .Do you want me to help?"

Surprised, Alice looked at him over her shoulder. He seemed serious, head tilted slightly and hands held behind his back. "Didn't you grow up with a legion of servants?" she asked him, half-sarcastic, half-genuinely curious. "Shouldn't your reaction to me be 'scrub harder,' or 'you missed a spot?'"

"Pretty much the only person I could call anywhere near a friend back home was our old driver, Mayhew," Victor replied, fidgeting. "And I've always gotten on well with the servants. I never saw the point of ordering them around as harshly as Mother liked to. I'd feel better if I were useful anyway."

What a peculiar rich boy he was. "Well, I'm not one to say no to help, but I've only got the one sponge," she said. "If you can find yourself a rag in the kitchen, however. . . ."

Victor nodded and hurried off, returning after a few minutes with a old scrap of cloth. He dipped it into the bucket and started wiping away someone's noughts and crosses game. "Do the children often draw on the walls?" he asked.

"All the time," Alice said, rolling her eyes. "I have to do this once a week if we ever want to see clean wallpaper." She wet her sponge again before attacking a doodle of a rather lopsided pony. "I suppose I can't blame them, though. I did the same when I was their age."

"So did I," Victor admitted. "Only twice, though. Mother screamed at me each time I did."

"I got lectured about how a proper artist confines herself to her paper," Alice said. "No screaming – Mama and Papa weren't the type."

"Lucky you," Victor mumbled.

Alice made a noncommital sound – "lucky" was not a word she'd use to describe herself. "You've mentioned a name I don't recognize," she said, changing the subject. "I know Emily is the corpse you married, but who's Victoria?"

"Oh, she was my arranged fiancee – Victoria Everglot," Victor explained. "Victoria White now. My parents and hers engaged us. The whole reason I met Emily was because I was such a wreck at our wedding rehearsal. I couldn't remember my vows for the life of me."

"I see," Alice said. "So you wandered off into the middle of the woods to practice? Odd location for a prospective groom."

"I thought I'd have some privacy there," Victor said with a faint blush. "I didn't expect to accidentally propose to a corpse."

"Well, who would?" Alice gave her sponge a fresh dunking. "How long did you know Victoria? I can't imagine it was a whirlwind romance if the marriage was arranged."

"Um – actually, w-we met the day of the rehearsal."

Alice paused in rubbing away someone's proclamation that Ollie was an idiot. "The day of the rehearsal?" she repeated, disbelieving. "Wait – I thought those sorts of marriages came about when parents introduced their children at balls and parties. So they could get to know each other and all. Shouldn't you at least have had tea together first?"

Victor shrugged in a rather helpless way. "The m-marriage was really for our parents' benefits. And I think my parents, at least, considered it a good thing that I didn't know her. They were probably worried I'd say or do something to offend her and jeopardize the proceedings." He gave Alice a sideways glance. "You may have noticed I'm not always the best at talking to women."

Alice supposed that was a joke, but she didn't find it all that funny. She bit down on her first response, which was to ask Victor if his parents even liked him. "So they wanted you to marry a complete stranger?" she asked instead. "No wonder you were nervous."

"Yes, but – it wouldn't have been that bad," Victor said, starting to smile again. "I met Victoria shortly before the rehearsal. She was a very nice young lady. Seemed almost as shy as I was. After talking to her for a few minutes, I thought we should be together."

Alice eyed him, one eyebrow arched. "From one brief talk? Did she manage to tell you her entire history in those few minutes?"

Victor frowned at her. "No. I just – I saw how sweet she really was. N-nothing like her parents," he added with a little shiver. "She seemed to like me on sight. And I liked her too."

"Fair enough – I suppose you could get that much from a short conversation," Alice allowed. "But it still means you were marrying a virtual stranger."

"Haven't you ever heard of love at first sight?" Victor argued.

"Yes, but hearing about something doesn't mean it's real," Alice replied, thinking about the rumors that flew thick and fast around the East End. "Do you know anything about her? Apart from the fact that she's 'nice?'"

"Um – well. . . ." Victor bit his lip as he thought. "She seems to like music, even if her parents don't approve. . .she sews. . .she's quite pretty. . .and her family used to be rather important, according to my mother. Related to grand dukes. I think they're viscounts these days. I don't really remember."

"That last bit is about Everglots in general, not her," Alice said, wagging a finger at him. "You barely know _her_ at all. And yet you thought you should be together forever." She smirked. "Or did you _make_ yourself think that because you thought you couldn't get out of it?"

"I did not!" Victor snapped, bristling. "She was genuinely very sweet! I don't have to know every little detail to know that I liked her!"

"Liked, yes. Loved?"

Victor fell silent for a long moment. "I w-wanted to make her happy," he mumbled, eyes on his shoes. "Doesn't that count for anything?"

"I suppose it does," Alice relented. She didn't want to upset him all over again – and lose her helper in the bargain. "Maybe you could have had a good marriage based on mutual like. Gotten to know each other after the wedding, as backwards as that is." She washed away an unidentifiable yellow thing. "What about your Emily? What did you know about her?"

"She was nice too – even though she scared me badly when we first met," Victor added with a chuckle. "She found my old dog and gave him to me as a wedding present. She played the piano, and danced in the moonlight. . .and I get the feeling that, if she hadn't been murdered, she would have been the sort to help plan all her friends' nuptials." His shoulders slumped. "It's not fair that her life ended like it did."

"Most people's lives don't end like they should," Alice agreed, staring at a set of four stick figures holding hands. She swiped them away before they could change into too-familiar faces. "I believe we went over just how unfair life is last night, when you objected to me being committed for ten years."

"I still think it's horrible to put children in asylums," Victor said, rubbing the rag a little harder than necessary against the caboose of a crude purple train.

"After a week here, you'll want to send some of these children to one yourself."

"Oh, that's mean."

"So are they. Maybe they have a right to be bratty, but I say I can still get annoyed with them for it." Alice moved a little closer so she could work on the front half of the train. "Back to our previous topic – do you know anything else about Emily, besides the way she died? What's her last name?"

Victor's eyes darted from side to side, his free hand twisting his tie. "Er. . . ."

Alice stared at him. "You didn't bother to find out her last name," she said slowly. "Or imagine one for her."

Victor shifted his weight from foot to foot. "I just – n-never asked. I wasn't r-really thinking clearly at the time."

"I'll say you weren't. And you were willing to marry her regardless?"

"I thought there was n-nothing left for me Above," Victor attempted to explain, waving a hand. "Oh dear, it's such a long, complicated mess of a story. . . . When I met Emily and disappeared Below, Victoria's parents found her a new husband – a Lord Barkis Bittern, who'd recently come to town to attend our wedding." Victor's face darkened for a moment. "At least, that's what he claimed. . . . I heard about her new nuptials from Mayhew, who'd recently succumbed to his cough, poor fellow, and – well, without Victoria, life d-didn't. . .and I wanted so much to make Emily happy, and death with her didn't seem horrible at all. . . ."

"Death?" Alice gaped at Victor, forgetting all about crayon marks. How had she missed _that_ implication?! "Wait – you tried to _kill yourself_? For someone you barely knew?!"

"I knew enough to believe I'd be happy with her." Victor turned to face her, his expression pleading. "Alice, I – I _loved_ them. I looked forward to both life with Victoria and death with Emily. I know you don't believe me, but it's the truth! I wanted them to be happy – to be happy _with_ them. To enjoy a life – or afterlife – with one or the other, whoever wanted me more."

Alice stared into his eyes. He seemed perfectly sincere – and absolutely desperate for her to believe him. "I don't believe it's eternal, true love you were feeling, but I'll buy that you wanted them to be happy," she said at last.

"What do you think I was feeling then?" Victor challenged, frowning.

"I'm going with a particularly strong case of like, mixed with you daydreaming about some 'ideal marriage' to get over your fears," Alice replied, going back to her cleaning. "I'm sorry, but I can't believe you can truly love someone until you've known them for longer than a day. You need to know things about them first. Like their last names. Or their favorite color," she added facetiously.

Victor was quiet for a bit. "Then how could I set Emily free?" he whispered.

"Obviously, whatever you did was enough. I would imagine intending to commit suicide proved your intentions to her." She frowned at him. "You really believed there was nothing left for you up here without Victoria? What about your parents? Your friends?"

The silence that followed answered her question better than words ever could. "Um – what kept you in this life, then?" Alice asked, fixing her eyes on the wall in an attempt to defuse the awkwardness. It didn't help much.

"Emily seeing Victoria watching our second wedding and not wanting to hurt her," Victor replied, voice soft. "We had to go Upstairs to do things properly, you see. She stopped me from drinking the Wine of Ages – poison – and reunited us. And then, Lord Barkis walked in." He dunked his rag into the bucket with surprising violence. "He claimed Victoria as his wife, and Emily recognized him as her murderer. He tried to kill me when I attempted to stop him from dragging Victoria away. I ended up having to fight him armed with a barbeque fork."

". . .This is why no one believes you, Victor. Your life sounds like a penny dreadful."

It got a smile out of him. "It does a little, doesn't it? But I swear it happened. Emily stopped Barkis from killing me, and then he decided to mock her with a toast – using the Wine of Ages. Once he'd passed on, the rest of the Dead took care of him."

"How?"

Victor shrugged. "I don't know, but judging by his terrified cries, I'm sure it wasn't pleasant. Not that he didn't deserve whatever punishment they meted out." He sighed and looked up at the ceiling. "And that's when Emily said her goodbyes and turned into butterflies."

"And then the fairytale ended, Victoria ended up marrying another man for whatever reason, and you ended up here," Alice summed up for him. "Obviously whoever's editing your story needed another chapter to sell."

"She thought I had killed myself," Victor explained. "The elder Everglots dragged her away to the country once I brought her home – the arrival of the dead terrified them. And then our pastor started calling me damned. . .do you have any idea what that feels like?" he suddenly asked, looking at her with pained eyes. "To have someone declare you're evil and d-destined for Hell?"

"Not directly, but I have it on good authority that one Reverend Mottle seemed to think I lost my soul in the fire," Alice replied, recalling a bit of gossip Nurse Witless had shared with her. "The rumor was that I could feel nothing – neither pain nor joy, torment nor pleasure. Of course, I was catatonic at the time, so perhaps they were just describing how I was acting." She smirked at him. "Plenty of people probably think I'm destined for Hell – just none of them like to come out and say it. I'm violently unstable, after all. You know what the children said yesterday afternoon, about the spoon? That's because I ripped open the cheek of an orderly that was mocking me back in the asylum with one. Being told I have no soul after that is hardly worth mentioning."

Victor stared for a moment, obviously having no idea how to reply to that. "Ah – well – you s-seem to take it better than I do," he finally said, turning his gaze back to the wall.

"I've had to learn. Remember, your tale of woe only lasts a few months. Mine has lasted over ten years. I've developed a thick skin in that time." _Or the appearance of one,_ she thought. Sometimes, the insults tossed at her still managed to hurt. She'd never admit such weakness to another living soul, though. The world would gobble you up and spit you out if you were weak. "You might develop one too, if you stay here long enough. But we've digressed. Let's go back to the last remark but one, if you recall it."

"About why Victoria married another? Well, when her family heard what Pastor Galswells was saying, they thought it meant I'd c-committed suicide. And she'd already found someone she liked, so. . . ." A weird half-smile appeared on his face. "I've met her new husband. He's – he's n-nice."

"And yet part of you loathes him for taking away someone who might have been your one true love?" Alice guessed.

Victor nodded, looking ashamed. "I shouldn't feel like that. It was obvious they loved each other. She said they could t-talk and laugh. . . ."

"You are aware you may have just proved my previous point about needing more than one day to fall in love for me."

Victor huffed, giving her a look. "You weren't there. You didn't meet Victoria and Emily. You didn't see us together."

"No, I wasn't and I didn't," Alice said, holding up her hands in surrender. "Maybe I missed out on seeing one of the world's great love stories go tragically wrong, depending on which girl you were supposed to end up with. I don't think so, but we'll never know for certain. We'll just have to agree to disagree, contradictory as that is." She stepped back and looked at the wall. "I think we've gotten everything – I can take care of disposing of the water." She gave him another little smile. "Thank you for helping me, though."

"You're very welcome." Victor draped the rag over the side of the bucket, then turned to go. At the top of the stairs, however, he paused and looked back. "Alice?"

"Hmm?"

"It's – it's blue."

It took her a moment to puzzle out what he meant. "Oh – it's blue or red for me," she told him, dropping the sponge in the bucket. "Depends on my mood." She grinned wickedly. "So, when's the wedding?"

Victor turned pink, laughed nervously, and hurried down the stairs. Alice shook her head with a smile. He was so amusing when he was flustered. _I think I'm going to like having him around._


	5. But His Name's Not Tenniel

April 11th, 1875

Whitechapel, London's East End, England

3:14 P.M.

"Hey Alice! Tell us another story about Wonderland!"

"Yeah, tell us how you murdered all those poor, innocent Card Guards!"

Alice gave the children surrounding her a flat look. "Those 'poor, innocent Card Guards' attempted to stab me or blow me up multiple times," she replied, running the duster over the fireplace mantel.

"Yeah, because you were coming at them with a knife," Elsie pointed out.

"They started it. If they didn't want me coming at them with a knife, they shouldn't have attacked me as they did with their staves."

"Who tried to do what?"

Alice looked over to see Victor standing just inside the door, his sketchbook tucked under his arm and an inkwell and quill in his hands. "What are you talking about?" he continued with a puzzled frown.

"Didn't you know? Her own head tried to kill her," Ollie spoke up before she could say anything. "Loads of times."

"Yes, and I think this lot likes hearing about me nearly getting exploded or decapitated or shot," Alice said, folding her arms and regarding the children gathered around her coolly. They just smiled at her, all innocence. "But one must give their audience what they want. What brings you out here?"

"I thought I'd try to draw something," Victor said, holding up the quill. "I don't think I'll find many butterflies in London, so I was going to make do with objects about the Home first. . . ." He shrugged with his free shoulder. "I can leave if I'm bothering you."

" _They're_ the ones bothering me," Alice said, waving a hand to encompass the crowd of children. "You can stay and draw whatever you like. Besides, I probably won't even notice you're here. If I don't tell them a story, they'll never let me be."

"Yes, because you're so intent on finishing the dusting," said Abigail, rolling her eyes.

"If it wasn't for me, you'd live in worse squalor than you already do," Alice retorted. She put down the duster and leaned against the fireplace. "So – you want to hear about me versus the Card Guards, hmm?"

"You versus anything," Reggie said. "Tell us about fighting the Army Ants – you never talk enough about them."

"All right. I hope you don't mind hearing about slaughter while you're trying to draw," she added as Victor sat down at the table at the other end of the room. She couldn't imagine he'd enjoy hearing about her cutting a bloody swath through Wonderland. Poor man would probably get sick.

"I can tune things out when I'm drawing," Victor replied, flipping open his sketchbook. "Don't let me interrupt you."

Well, she'd given him fair warning. If he got ill, it was his own fault. Alice turned her attention back to the children. "So – after gulping down the Drink Me potion the Mayor Elder had gifted me with and leaping through the tiny, mysteriously-convenient portal in the Skool's Observatory, I found myself in the Vale of Tears, no larger than your average beetle. It was a dull and dreary place indeed – all the world except the two feet directly in front of my nose was completely swallowed by grey mist. Have you ever seen anything like that?" The children shook their heads. "It's the most disconcerting thing in the world. You feel like nothing exists until you actually run into it – and even then you're not sure. If I hadn't been so determined to find Rabbit, I don't think I could have brought myself to move. As it was, I wandered about in the grey for a while, wondering just how lost I was getting and if I'd ever see any signs of life beyond the occasional droopy flower ever again, until I found myself at the base of a huge waterfall – well, huge by the standards of insects," she amended. "It was probably nothing but a tiny trickle down a minuscule crack to normal humans. But to me it was taller than the tallest buildings of Europe or America. And of course, I managed to catch sight of none other than that dratted White Rabbit mere _seconds_ before he darted into a hole that's promptly blocked by a falling boulder. As usual, _I'm_ forced to take the _long_ way. . . ."

The children stood in front of her, rapt, as she told them of her long struggle up the face of the waterfall – dodging the boulders the Ants sent tumbling down at her at every turn, leaping from ledge to crumbly earthen ledge with nothing to save her from the deadliest of drops but her own meager arm strength should she miss, and avoiding the attentions of the curious Mechanical Ladybirds with their devastating payloads. "I think the tiny regiment of three were shocked to see me reach the top in one piece," she commented. "Not that it stopped them from trying to snip me in two with their mandibles once I got up there. I returned the favor to the first Ant with my Vorpal Blade, slashing through his thin neck and sending his head toppling over the side into the abyss. His brother-in-arms sought to avenge him by stabbing me with his bayonet – I blocked him with the Blade, then beat him senseless with my Croquet Mallet. Well, rather more than senseless – it took me a moment to realize the only reason he was still twitching was because of the constant stream of electric shocks my Mallet was assaulting him with. The third wisely stayed on his side of the river and relied on his marksmanship to fell me. Unfortunately, he was a very poor shot, and I pelted him with my Cards until he was the one lying in twain in a pool of his own green blood. Even if I hadn't had to go wading upstream to continue my journey, I probably would have done so anyway. After that fight, I was absolutely covered in guts and gore. And the green didn't go nearly as well with my dress as the red blood of the Card Guards did."

The children grinned and giggled, eating up the description of the pain and suffering of her enemies. Alice had learned early on that they enjoyed hearing every gruesome detail of her adventures – maybe because listening to the agonies of others distracted them from their own. At least it made them a receptive audience. She continued on, telling the children about the Pool of Tears and the shell-less Mock Turtle, and about the horrific leaf ride he'd led her on down the rushing streams. She vaguely noticed Victor looking up from his doodling to watch her about midway through the story, then turning to a new page in his sketchbook, but she didn't think anything of it. "And what do you think was waiting for me right after Mock floated on ahead? Another bloody drop! I just barely leapt to safety on dry earth. Well, I say safety – there were two Ants waiting there for me, muskets at the ready. Fortunately we had a rock between us I could dart behind and avoid their shots."

"What did their uniforms look like?"

"Blue shirts, with three gold stripes at the end of the sleeves and gold epaulets on the shoulders," Alice replied – then blinked. Wait, that hadn't been one of the children. She looked up to see Victor hunched over his sketchbook, quill waving as he scratched away. "Why do _you_ want to know?" she added.

"Hmmm?" Victor continued scribbling for a moment, then blinked and raised his head as the question registered. "Oh! Um – w-well. . . ." He glanced at the sketchbook, then sat up and turned it so it was visible to the crowd. Curious, Alice went over to see what he'd drawn, the children trailing after her.

Her eyes went wide. Before her, laid out in sharp black ink, was the scene of a vicious battle. On the one side was an enraged Army Ant, wielding a bayonet with deadly efficiency. On the other – was herself, fending off his attacks with her Vorpal Blade, brow creased in lethal concentration. _Just like at the top of the waterfall,_ she thought, the scene replaying itself in her mind. Granted, Victor hadn't gotten it quite right – the Alice on the page was attired in her London clothes, and the ant's uniform wasn't yet complete. But the movement, the weapons, the furious look in their eyes – it was almost like he'd _been_ there. _I'm_ _not_ that _good a storyteller, am I?_

"Wow," Ollie whistled, impressed. "You're good."

"Lots of practice, I assure you," Victor said with a shy smile. Turning his gaze to Alice, he added, "I just couldn't help but get caught up in your story. And drawing Army Ants and Vorpal Blades seemed so much more interesting than half-empty bookshelves. . . ." The smile faded. "But if you don't like it, I can get rid of it. No trouble."

"No, don't," Alice said immediately, shocked he'd even consider destroying such a piece of art. "It's amazing. How did you draw the ant so well? I half-expect to leap off the page."

Victor chuckled. "Butterflies may be my favorite object of study, but I like all insects. I've made quite a few drawings of ants before." He turned the sketch back around. "Never clothed, though," he admitted, adding the epaulets to the Ant's shoulders. "You're sure you don't mind? I'd hate to think I was intruding on your world."

"They draw scenes from my Wonderland all the time," Alice said, jerking her head toward the children. "They're not half as good as you are." She ignored the dirty looks this prompted from Reggie and Abigail, intent on watching Victor.

"As I said, I've rather more experience with a pen." He finished the epaulets and glanced up at her. "Is that right?"

"Almost. There's a stripe on the collar about halfway up. . .yes, just there," she nodded as he added the final detail. "That's perfect."

"Are you gonna put it on your wall?" Abigail asked.

"If he'll let me," Alice said, giving Victor a hopeful smile.

"Oh – y-yes, if you like it that much. . . ." Victor added his signature to the bottom, then carefully tore the picture free. He presented it to her with a little flourish. "All yours."

"Thank you very much," Alice said, taking the sketch and looking it over again. It was astonishing how well he'd managed to translate her words into visual form. "If I ever decide to write a book, I want you to be my illustrator."

Victor blinked. "I'm – I won't say I don't have talent, but–" He looked down at his hands, then back up at her. "That's not something I've ever considered. At least, not for fictional books. I've always sort of wanted one of my scientific drawings published. . . ." He twisted his fingers together. "Do you really think I'm that good?"

"Better, honestly. I've seen some truly dreadful picture books. You should consider it, if you ever decide you want a job in something other than fish." Alice glanced back at the children. "I think that's enough story time for now."

"Aww, but you haven't told us how far you got down the river," Reggie complained.

"I'll tell you more after lunch, if you like. I want to hang this up – and I need to finish the dusting before Dr. Bumby complains."

The children grumbled, but dispersed, going to play with the toys scattered around the room. Victor stood up. "Er – can I get you the pins?" he offered.

"That would be nice – if you knew where they were," Alice pointed out, smirking playfully. "You can hold onto it while I get them and help me find a good place to hang it." She handed him back his sketch. "Go wait for me in my room. I expect you can find it, given that it's right next to yours. I do hope your head doesn't pop from entering it without a chaperone to watch over us," she added, bracing herself for the flustered fuss that was sure to follow. After all, if he'd been that embarrassed to find her in her nightgown once. . . .

To her surprise, Victor smirked back at her. "Oh, you needn't worry. I've already been in Victoria's room unchaperoned – and uninvited. Well sort of. . . ." he amended, fussing with his tie a little. "The point is, I know it's not the end of the world."

". . .You, of all people, invaded a lady's bedroom," Alice said, completely thrown. "When did you do that? The five seconds you had alone together before the rehearsal?"

"No – I was trying to get some help with Emily at the time," Victor explained. "I'd asked her to bring me back to the Land of the Living to meet my parents, hoping they could help me explain how I hadn't meant to marry her. I expected to find them at the Everglot mansion, but our carriage was missing, so I went to the front door to ask the Everglots. However, I overheard them talking about me on the other side, and they seemed rather – u-upset, so, out of desperation, I climbed up to Victoria's room to seek her aid. She _did_ invite me in, but going behind her parents' backs probably negates her permission. . . ." He shook his head and sighed. "And it didn't make any difference in the end anyway. In trying to lead up to my situation gently, all I did was ensure Emily caught us together at the most inconvenient moment possible."

"What, did you go the extra mile and kiss Victoria?"

". . . _Almost_ the most inconvenient moment possible," Victor corrected himself. "I spotted her climbing over the balcony just before my lips touched Victoria's. It's good that I did, too – she was upset enough with me after discovering Victoria without that."

"And for good reason – why didn't you ever _tell_ her that you already had a fiancee?" Alice had to ask, rocking back on her heels.

"Because, as Lord Everglot liked to say, I can be a real ninny," Victor muttered, cheeks flushing as he looked at the floor. "I suppose I can blame being in shock at first – suddenly having a woman rise from the dead in front of you and drag you down to the Underworld would addle the best of people. But after hearing Bonejangles's song, about how she was betrayed by someone she loved. . .the obvious answer seemed far too cruel. How on earth do you politely tell someone, 'I'm terribly sorry, but I thought your hand was a twig?'" His hand founds its way to his tie again. "It's pathetic, really. . .in trying not to hurt her feelings, I think I caused her the most pain I've ever caused a person."

He looked exactly like a kicked puppy, Alice decided. Her heart went out to him despite herself. Perhaps the incidents he mentioned were all the products of a sick, deluded mind, like everyone else thought they were, but still. . . .

" _An imaginary wound is still a wound,"_ a smooth voice said, and she looked over Victor's shoulder to see a familiar blood-flecked smile grinning at her. _"You should know that better than most."_

"Oh, shove off," Alice snapped, waving her hand irritably at the grin.

Victor's head snapped back up, his eyes wide with shock. "B-beg pardon?"

"Not you," Alice assured him. "Just one of my imaginary 'friends' interjecting on the situation." She gave the smile a glare, and it faded away into nothingness. "Speaking of which, I can see how trying to tell someone you thought they were a harmless branch would be difficult. On the other hand, it would have saved you a lot of trouble."

"Yes," Victor agreed with a sigh. "But I can't go back and change the past. And considering the end she got, I'm not sure I'd want to. Everything we went through led to her finding her peace. Isn't that more important than what happens to me?"

"Not being an expert on theological matters, I couldn't say."

"Are you two just going to stand there forever, or are you actually gonna hang up that picture so we can have story time later?" Elsie called from across the room.

"For that, you can wait until I've polished the knick-knacks before hearing anything else," Alice shot back, eliciting a chorus of groans. "She has a point, though – let me go get those pins." She turned away and headed into the hall. _Well,_ she thought, shaking her head. _I would have never suspected him of sneaking into someone's bedroom, no matter the situation. He was so nervous and shy when he first arrived. . .how many more surprises does he have in store for me?_

She located the pins and went to her room. Victor was standing just inside the doorway, looking at the collection of pictures on her wall. "Are all of these from the children?" he asked, his eyes traveling over images of murderous chessmen, demented hatters, and card guards being messily dismembered.

"A couple," Alice said, feeling a flicker of embarrassment. "The majority are ones I've drawn myself. My skills don't quite match up to yours." _Though they used to – whatever happened to that talent I displayed at Rutledge?_

"They're all very – bloody," Victor said, glancing at her.

"That's what Wonderland was like at the time," Alice replied, taking his sketch and looking for an appropriate section of wall to stick it on. "I told you it didn't take well to me going mad. I had to fight my way across it to try and earn my sanity back. Which included being forced to kill a few old friends. Didn't that story of mine give you a clue?"

"Er – I suppose," Victor whispered, grimacing at the pictures. "T-that must have been terrible."

"It certainly wasn't fun," Alice agreed, finding a spot above her bed. "But I persevered in the end." She stretched herself and laid the drawing flat. "Hold this in place, will you?"

Victor obligingly set a hand against it. As Alice pinned the corners, his gaze drifted to the photograph hanging nearby. "Is that your family?" he asked.

Alice nodded. "Mama, Papa, Elizabeth, and me," she said softly. "Some anonymous person sent it to me. I wish they'd put a return address – I'd like to thank them. I think every other memento I could have had of my family burned in the fire. Except for my favorite toy rabbit, but that's been missing a – a long time." _And when I find out who stole it from my room at Rutledge. . . ._

"I'm sorry to hear that," Victor said, voice low and sad. He leaned closer, examining the image of Lizzie. "You look rather like your sister."

"I suppose I do," Alice admitted. Unconsciously she hugged herself. "I'm older than she was when she died now. I always threatened her that one day I'd be the older sister. . . ." She looked away, feeling tears pricking the corners of her eyes.

As usual, Victor's tie was the victim of his feeling awkward. "Ah – i-is there anything I–" he started.

Alice shook her head, getting control over her emotions. "Unless you can raise _them_ from the dead, no. I'm fine, I really am." Maybe if she said it enough, it would end up being true. "You know, technically you drew me all wrong," she added, wanting to distract him from her moment of weakness.

"Did I?" Victor looked back at the sketch he'd made. "I thought it was a pretty good likeness. I confess I've never been as good with people as I am with insects, though."

"Oh it's a fine likeness – of me here," Alice said. "But I look a bit different in Wonderland. Longer hair, nicer clothes – prettier overall."

"Oh, I see," Victor said with a half-smile. Then, with a little wince, he hastily added, "Er – not to imply you're not pretty here, of course."

"You didn't insult me," Alice assured him, smirking. _There_ were the nerves she found so hilarious. "I know I don't have the best looks." She fingered her tangled hair. "Ten years in the looney bin will do that to you."

"Yes, but –"

Why did he constantly cut himself off? "Yes?" Alice prompted.

Victor hesitated, then looked her full in the face. "Do excuse me if this is too forward – but you've got the most gorgeous eyes I've ever seen."

She hadn't expected that. She'd expected more flustered half-sentences, a generic declaration of loveliness that she could easily dismiss. Not something that sounded so sincere and sweet. "Is that why you kept staring at me when we first met?" she asked as she tried to work out what one did with a genuine compliment.

Victor nodded, twisting his tie some more (he was going to rip it in two if he wasn't careful). "I'm sorry, it was quite rude of me, but – well, I've never seen eyes quite like yours before. Any color beyond deep blue or brown is a rarity in Burtonsville. The green you have is just so – _vibrant_." He shrugged, giving her a tiny smile. "I like it."

. . .She was _blushing._ She did not like feeling awkward like this. And yet, she couldn't really be angry with him. What sorcery was this? "T-thank you," she said, hating that little stutter. That was _his_ thing, damn it. She forced herself back under control. "You've got rather unusual eyes yourself. I was wondering if you had anything but pupil."

Victor let out a weak laugh. "Family trait."

"Is it also a family trait to be skinny as a rail and so pale I doubt you've ever seen sunshine?" Alice asked, folding her arms. She knew she was leaning toward being nasty, but she wanted him to pay for that blush.

Victor, however, didn't seem to notice – he merely nodded. "I'm every inch a Van Dort in that respect," he said, smoothing out his tie. "Though even Father says I'm the most extreme example in a while. Except in height."

"I disagree – you've got a foot on me if you've got an inch," Alice said, looking him up and down. "How tall _are_ you?"

"Six feet, three inches. But I promise you, that's just about average for my family – for Burtonsville in general, really. We're almost all very tall or very short. My great-grandfather Horace Van Dort was _seven_ feet tall."

"Seven!" Jealousy welled up within Alice – she'd always wanted to be even a half-inch taller. Why was it some people got all the luck? "You're a family of bloody giants. Or, well, you would be if you had the muscle to go with your absurdly tall frames. I'd ride around on your shoulders so I could tower over everyone else if I wasn't afraid your spine would break under even my undernourished weight."

Victor laughed. "I'm sorry to disappoint. Though I suppose you could try if you liked. . . ."

Alice shook her head, amused again. "No – thinking about it, I'd bang my head on every doorframe." She glanced outside. "You should probably go get your sketchbook. I wouldn't be surprised if some enterprising child has decided to doodle in it by now."

Victor somehow managed to turn whiter than he already was. "Oh no!" He bolted out the door, nearly tripping in his haste.

Alice drew back a step, surprised by the look of terror on Victor's face. Was it really so horrible if one of the children added their own special touch to his sketchbook? Then again, she wouldn't exactly be happy either if someone drew all over her pictures, crude as they were these days. And the children did like to tease him about his reasons for being here. They'd probably draw something disgusting in it just to rile him up. She hoped he saved it before that could happen. Nobody deserved something like _that_ memorialized in one of their prized possessions.

She turned back to the sketch now hanging on her wall. He really did have talent. She could practically hear her Vorpal Blade clanging against the Army Ant's bayonet, and feel the breeze ruffling her hair and skirts. She reached up and brushed her fingers over the ink Alice. Seeing her London self in battle. . .she liked it. It made her feel – powerful. Like she was just as capable of fighting, of surviving, as her Wonderland self was. That was a feeling she hadn't had since she first left Rutledge. It was good to have it back.

She saw Victor pass by out of the corner of her eye, clutching the book to his chest. "Did they get at it?" she asked.

Victor shook his head. "Thankfully no. I've got some important sketches in here."

"Good." She paused, then on impulse added, "You know, if you want to hear some more stories of Wonderland, all you've got to do is ask. I don't mind telling you. Especially if you favor me with some more drawings."

Victor smiled. "I'd be happy to draw more pictures for you. Wonderland sounds like an amazing place. Dangerous, but amazing."

"It is," Alice said, feeling a pang of longing. She missed her childhood dreamland a lot. Even if large parts of it had tried to kill her on her last visit. The Village of the Doomed, the Pale Realm, the Wonderland Woods. . .even at their absolute worst, they were more interesting than dull and dirty London. Maybe – maybe she should try to make another daydream trip there. . . ?

No. That would be counterproductive to convincing the world she was well and could stand on her own two feet. Better to keep it to stories – no matter how much it hurt to abandon her old friends. They were probably happier without her anyway, considering most of them had ended up dead for a while thanks to her. _And besides,_ she thought, frowning at another grin that flickered briefly into existence, _they know where to find me if they must have my company._ "I'll have to tell you about the days when it was simply amazing."

Victor nodded. "I'd like that." He continued on into his room, apparently to store the sketchbook somewhere safe. Alice watched as he closed the door behind him, then turned one last time to his sketch. Earlier, she'd thought he would just be fun to have around, to tease every once in a while. Now, though. . .

Now she was wondering if she might actually get a friend out of all of this.


	6. Twinkle Twinkle Little Bat

April 15th, 1875

Whitechapel, London's East End, England

2:22 P.M.

Victor poked his head through the doorway of the front foyer and looked around. The room was in its usual messy state – bookshelves no more than half-full, fireplace cold and filled with soot, tables crowded with junk, tiny dolls and furniture lying abandoned around the dollhouse. . .and not a single living person in sight. Victor grinned and entered the room. It was just as he'd hoped – the Houndsditch Home For Wayward Youth was completely empty of people. He'd seen Alice and Dr. Bumby leaving to take care of various errands earlier, and now he'd just confirmed that all the younger residents were playing outside, taking advantage of a rare sunny day. For a few precious moments, the Home was his and his alone. _And,_ he thought, making a beeline for the piano tucked into the far corner, _I know exactly how to spend them._

He ran his fingers over the keys, then played a quick scale to verify the instrument was in tune. It wasn't a particularly auspicious model – nothing like the Harryhausen the Everglots had owned. But the manufacturer wasn't all that important. What mattered was that it was a good, solid upright piano. And right now, it was all his.

The scale rang out through the empty room, every note clear and correct. Satisfied that everything was in good working order, he sat down upon the stool. There was some sheet music set up in a stand mounted above the keyboard, but Victor ignored it. He had no objections to playing music other people had written, of course – he'd whiled away many a hour with Beethoven, Bach, and Mozart – but right now. . .right now, there was a melody inside him, longing to escape. He could feel it pressing against his ribcage, sliding down his arms, tingling in his fingertips. _Play,_ it whispered to him. _Set me free. Let me fly. Let me tell the world everything you could never put into words_. _**Play.**_

So he did.

Something sad and slow emerged from his fingers – something full of repression and seclusion and imprisonment. The theme of his life these past few months. Victor closed his eyes, letting the music fill him. Oh, he had _missed_ this. How had he survived all this time without going near a piano? He'd done his finger exercises regularly on an invisible keyboard, just to keep from getting too out of practice, but that was nothing compared to actually hearing the notes outside of your own head, with his fingers tiptoeing over the keys, the rest of the world an insignificant memory. . .some deep hole inside him began filling up again. Despite the mournful tune, he smiled. For the first time in a month, he felt truly, wonderfully _alive_.

"Well."

The music died in a terrified jangle of notes. Victor's eyes snapped open. "Oh!" He leapt to his feet, then heard a dangerous rocking behind him and whirled around, grabbing the stool before it could crash to the floor. "H-hello, Alice," he stammered, attempting to smile. "H-how are you?"

Alice frowned at him, eyebrows knitting together. "Did I scare you that much? I knew you were jumpy, but I didn't think _that_ jumpy."

"Ah – um – I didn't think you were c-coming back until later," Victor said, busying himself with making sure the stool was properly settled. God, he felt so vulnerable, so exposed. . .he forced himself to straighten up and look at her. "H-how much did you–"

"A couple of minutes' worth," Alice said, rocking on her heels. "Things went quicker than I expected with the greengrocer. I didn't expect to come back to musical accompaniment." She gave him a small smile. "You play beautifully."

Victor experienced a curious sense of deja-vu. "Ah – d-do you play?" he asked on impulse, half-expecting her to come back with some malarkey about her mother declaring music "too passionate" for young ladies.

Alice smirked – her favorite expression, he'd noticed, after bland indifference and annoyance. "No, but not for lack of trying on my mother's and nanny's parts," she said, moving forward to run her fingers over the keys. "Lizzie and I were strongly encouraged to learn both French and music – it was what all 'proper young ladies' did, after all. Lizzie took to both much more than I did." Her face fell, as it always did whenever she talked about her family. "She had a real gift for the piano. I always enjoyed hearing her play."

Victor felt a stab of irrational guilt. "I'm sorry."

"For what? I walked in on you," Alice said, the sadness pushed away in favor of a frown. "And frankly, I enjoyed hearing you play. Though from the looks of it, you didn't enjoy me hearing you play." She tilted her head, watching him with curious eyes. "You _are_ good, you know."

Victor nodded, sitting back down on the stool. "I know. It's just–" He clasped and unclasped his hands a few times, thinking hard. How to explain? "Music tends to be – very personal for me. When I play, it's – it's like – it's like the music comes from deep within my very s-soul," he tried, trying not to wince at his own phrasing. Why was it so impossible to put this into words without sounding incredibly cheesy? "Having an audience feels – intrusive."

"Like they've walked in on you naked?" Alice asked.

"Exactly," Victor nodded again, glad she understood. "Even when I'm playing things by other people, I hate having to perform for any sort of crowd. I managed it a few times, for Mother's sake, but even she realized how much I loathed it – she hasn't asked me to do so in years. I've only ever played with another person once – Emily, in fact – and that was special circumstances. Me trying to make up for a horrible mistake the only way I knew how. Usually, I just play for myself."

"I see." Alice fidgeted with her apron. "I'm sorry I interrupted, then."

"It's not your fault – you didn't know." Victor's fingers walked along the keyboard, idly pressing out a scale. "And you're hardly the first to walk in on me. In fact, that's how I first met Victoria – she came across me playing the piano in the Everglots' entrance hall almost exactly as you caught me just now. Scared me much the same way too," he added with a faint laugh.

"I'm not surprised," Alice said with another smirk. "You seemed a million miles away when I came in. Didn't you say something before about her family not approving of music, though? Why did they have a piano in the house if that was the case?"

Victor shrugged. "Search me, Alice. Victoria herself told me her mother considered music 'improper' for young ladies. Perhaps the instrument was just for show. That's why we got our piano, after all. Mother wanted one because it was 'high-class.'"

"At least yours got some use out of it," Alice said. "How did you come to play, then? From everything I heard as a child in Oxford from Father's undergraduates, learning to play an instrument was a _feminine_ pursuit, despite what Lady Everglot may claim. It was supposed to make a lady appear more refined and more fit for marriage, if I remember correctly. The men at the university wouldn't have dreamed of touching a piano." She paused, then added, "I hope that didn't come out like an insult – I didn't mean it that way."

"Not at all," Victor assured her. "As for how I learned to play. . . ." He looked down at the instrument in front of him, letting his memories transform it into the one he'd played so often at home. "Ever since I was small, I've been fascinated by music – particularly piano music. Mother would often drag me off to parties with her and Father, and my favorite part was always the musical entertainment. The way people coaxed such gorgeous melodies out of that strange, imposing black beast – it was magical. I was six when we bought ours, and I just couldn't keep away from it. I wanted so much to capture that magic myself – to figure out how you tamed the instrument and brought such beautiful music to life." He stroked one of the black keys with a finger. "I taught myself a couple of simple pieces – 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star' and 'Baa Baa Black Sheep' – to convince Mother I should learn. Fortunately, she had already decided it would be 'cultured' to have a son who knew music and hired me a teacher." He shrugged. "And – well – apparently I have a natural ear for it. I've been playing regularly ever since."

"I can believe it," Alice said, with a rare genuine smile. "You're certainly more musical than I am – for me, 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star' has been 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Bat' ever since my first tea party at Hatter and Hare's."

"'Twinkle Twinkle Little Bat?'" Victor repeated, laughing a little. "How do bats twinkle?"

"Well, according to Hatter. . .

_Twinkle, twinkle little bat,_

_How I wonder what you're at?_

_Up above the world you fly,_

_Like a tea tray in the sky –_

"And then I don't know the rest because the Dormouse started mumbling 'twinkle' over and over again until we silenced him with pinching," Alice admitted. "Perhaps Hatter was talking about some sort of shiny metallic bat – even back then, he had some interest in machinery. Got completely out of hand when I went mad, sadly. . . ."

Victor wasn't sure he wanted to know. "You have a lovely singing voice," he commented instead, determined to keep the conversation on a somewhat happy course.

"You are a flatterer, Master Van Dort," Alice said, grinning as she folded her arms. "I hardly know what to do with all these compliments."

"Accept them?" Victor suggested with a little grin of his own.

"I suppose I must. It won't do to leave them out to be picked up by any random woman on the street. Anyway, I may not have the same skill with an instrument as my dear sister or you, but I know what I like. And what you were just playing. . . Does it have a name?"

"No, it was just something that – that I needed to get out," Victor said, ducking his head as he felt a fresh attack of shyness hit him. "C-completely spur of the moment. I do that a lot."

"Well, I thought it was lovely. Even if no one else was supposed to hear it."

Victor lifted his head, smiling. "Thank you."

Alice nodded, then turned toward the front doors. Victor blinked, puzzled. "Where are you going?"

"To keep the children outside for a while – unless you're done because I ruined the mood," Alice said, glancing back at him.

Victor stared, mouth hanging open slightly. She was going to make sure he got his privacy? Let him play for a while longer? He hadn't expected that at all. The most he'd thought would happen would be her going about her own business in the Home while he went back to his room. "No, I w-would like to have a few more minutes. . .that would be very kind of you," he added, not wanting to seem ungrateful.

Alice smirked and wagged a finger at him. "Well, don't get used to it. There's only so much of those little ones I can take. So play fast."

Victor laughed. That was more like her. "I'll play at double speed just for you," he promised with a playful grin.

"You're too kind, Master Van Dort. Enjoy yourself." Alice gave him a wave, then disappeared back outside.

Victor looked after her for a moment before turning back to the piano. "I never expected her to be so _nice_ ," he murmured to himself. "Or to understand so much. . . ." He shook his head. "Well, I can't abandon her to the mercies of the children for too long. Something fast, something fast. . . ." He stretched out his hands and put them to the keys.

A lighter, happier, and obligingly quicker song emerged from his fingers this time – not quite the antithesis of what he'd been playing before, but with a definite sense of hope that the other tune had lacked. Victor closed his eyes once more, letting the music carry him along with a warm smile. _Yes. . .it's not so bad here after all._


	7. Remembering A Rehearsal In Ruins

April 24th, 1875

Whitechapel, London's East End, England

2:40 P.M.

"Tell us a story!"

"I'm busy."

"Tell us a story anyway."

"I don't feel like it."

"Tell us a story anyway."

"What are you, a parrot? Or perhaps some mechanical thing with a stuck gear? Should I smack you on the head with this broom?"

"If it means you'll tell us a story."

Victor bit his lip as he stared at the pages in front of him, trying to repress a snigger. He knew it was wrong to eavesdrop, but – he couldn't help himself. The way Alice and the children bickered and teased one another always seemed to make him smile. He peeped over the top of his book to see Alice frowning at her little crowd of hangers-on. "Must you always be such pests?" she demanded, hands on her hips.

"Yes," Elsie said with a nod. "It's either that or be bored."

Alice rolled her eyes. "Look, I just came out of a rather annoying session with Dr. Bumby–"

"All your sessions with Dr. Bumby are annoying," Abigail interrupted. "You're never going to get better. They should just send you back to the asylum."

That turned his smile upside-down. "Abigail, that's cruel," Victor scolded, setting the book aside. "You shouldn't say things like that to other people."

"You're only saying that because you're just as mad as she is," Abigail replied, making a face at him. "Still wishing you could find a good shovel?"

"He doesn't need a shovel," Alice said, sparing Victor the need to defend himself. "They dig themselves up, according to him." A sly grin suddenly crossed her face. "Why don't you go bother _him_ for a story for a change? At least it'll be one you haven't heard before."

The children looked at each other. Then, as if by magic, the group had him surrounded, eager little faces beaming up at him. "Tell us all about your corpse bride!" Reggie demanded, hanging onto the side of his chair.

"Yeah, how'd you get married to a dead woman anyway?" Elsie added.

"Ah – um –" Victor snatched up his book, realizing too late it was upside-down. "I'm t-trying to read. . . ."

"Trying to read my foot – you were trying to keep from laughing as they annoyed me," Alice said, pointing at him with her broom. "Turnabout is fair play."

"Come on, we wanna hear all the details," Ollie said, pulling the book out of Victor's hands. "What was the wedding night like?"

Victor felt his entire head turn strawberry pink. Why was that always the first question asked in this horrible place?! "There was no w-wedding n-n-night! Despite what some people insist on thinking, I never – I _would_ n-never – I never even got properly married to her in the first place!"

"Why not? What happened?" Elsie asked, resting her elbows on his knee.

Victor shot Alice a pleading look. She ignored him, keeping her gaze fixed on the end of her broom as she started sweeping again. He turned back to the children with a deep sigh. No way out of it. He might as well _try_ to set the record straight. "Well," he began, leaning forward, "I was _supposed_ to get married to someone else. . . ."

He explained to the children about his arranged marriage to Victoria, segueing into the rehearsal that would just not go right. They giggled as he talked about all the mistakes he'd made: mispronouncing words, mixing up the lines, nearly dumping the wine all over the table, and failing multiple times in getting his candle to take the flame. "I think you should have given up when your candle wouldn't light," Abigail said as he paused for breath. "Obviously God was telling you you weren't supposed to get married."

"Maybe," Victor said, shaking his head. "It would have spared poor Lady Everglot some grief."

"How so?"

"I ended the rehearsal by setting her skirt on fire."

"You _what_?"

Victor and his audience looked up to see Alice staring at him. "You set someone on _fire_?" she continued, eyes wide with shock – and not a little fright. "How could you?!"

Victor winced. _Yes, go ahead and say that in front of someone who lost her family when her house burned down!_ "It was an a-accident, I swear!" he said quickly. "I dropped the ring, and it rolled under her s-skirt, and I was so focused on grabbing it without causing too much of a scene I left the candle on her dress! She wasn't hurt, I promise you – it was a v-very small fire, and the only damage was a tiny scorch mark on her hem – b-barely noticeable! Lord Barkis put it out with the wine from the goblet while the rest of us were p-panicking."

"Only one with a calm head," Alice said, frowning hard at him. "Why didn't you put the candle down _before_ you went after the ring?"

"B-because I was already flustered and I wasn't thinking! I know it's not an excuse, but–" Victor put his face in his hands. Why had he brought that up? He didn't want a repeat of what had happened when Alice had first heard about his adventures in the afterlife. He'd grown to _like_ talking to her. "I didn't _want_ to set anyone on fire. Especially not my future m-mother-in-law."

There was a moment of silence. "From what I've heard, many men would welcome the chance to set their mothers-in-law on fire," Alice finally said, causing him to jerk his head up in surprise. She was making jokes? Did that mean she didn't hate him? "But I expect you to be more careful with the candles around here. You're not setting anyone else on fire, even by accident."

"I promise," Victor said, raising one hand as if swearing an oath. "It's only happened the once, I assure you. I'm usually far more careful around anything with an open flame. I was just–"

"Not thinking," Alice filled in. "That's a bad habit, you know."

"I know," Victor agreed, looking at his feet.

"Who's Lord Barkis?" Elsie asked, tilting her head.

"Lord Barkis Bittern – he was a newcomer to town who came to my and Victoria's rehearsal," Victor explained, glad to switch topics – even if it was to Barkis. "He's also the one responsible for my corpse bride being a corpse."

"Huh?"

"He's the one who murdered her," Victor elaborated, voice going dark. Even now, months later, his fists still clenched with anger every time he thought of that man and what he'd done to Emily – and what he'd tried to do to Victoria. "Convinced her to elope with him, then killed her to steal the money he told her to bring."

"Oooooo," the children chorused, glancing at each other.

"Wait – if he killed your dead bride, what was he doing watching you get married to the live one?" Reggie asked, blinking. "Wouldn't he want to stay far away from someplace where he'd offed somebody? Don't make any sense!"

Victor frowned, considering that. "No, it doesn't, does it?" he admitted. "I never really thought about that before. He married Victoria when I went missing – he thought the Everglots were still rich – but if things had gone according to plan. . . ." He shrugged. "I don't know what foul scheme he had in mind – and it's not like I could ask him now."

"Maybe he thought he could steal that Victoria right out from underneath your nose," Abigail commented, looking thoughtful. "Or maybe he was looking to rob _your_ family. You said you were the richest in the village."

"Maybe. . . ." Victor shook his head. "I don't know. It doesn't really matter what his original reason for being there was – what matters is that we were able to stop him from hurting anyone else."

"Oooooh, did you kill him?" Reggie asked, eyes shining.

Victor drew back, disturbed by the eager glee he saw on the boy's face. Why were these children so intrigued by pain and death? _Then again, you could ask the same of some adults, couldn't you?_ he thought, remembering the copies of the "London Illustrated News" he'd seen lying about. That rag always had some sort of sensationalistic horror story to spread. _And given that drawing I made for Alice, I'm not much better. . . ._ "No, I didn't," he said, fussing with his tie. "He killed himself. Drank poison. But we're getting ahead of ourselves. . . ."

"What are you doing?"

Victor looked up to see Dr. Bumby standing in the doorway. "Why are you discussing suicide with a group of impressionable young children?" the psychiatrist continued, frowning. "You're not planning anything, are you?"

"N-not at all!" Victor swore, holding up his hands. "I just – they asked for a story, and they wanted to know about the Land of the Dead–"

"I see." Dr. Bumby shook his head. "You lot shouldn't encourage his delusions," he told the children. "You'll just make it harder for me to cure him."

"What's the trouble with a little story?" Elsie sulked.

"It encourages him to think of his experiences as real, thus fixing them more firmly in his mind. And I don't want any of you getting the wrong ideas either. One cannot bring corpses back to life, and there is no such thing as the Land of the Dead."

"You don't know that for sure," Ollie said, folding his arms and jutting out his lower lip.

"I don't purport to be an expert in what comes after mortal life, no," Dr. Bumby allowed. "But I'm quite sure that the world Victor is describing could not possibly exist. Especially in the context of the story he told." He squinted at Victor over his glasses. "We'll be having an extra session tomorrow afternoon, Master Van Dort. Right after lunch."

Victor sighed, shoulders slumping. Wonderful – an extra opportunity for him and the doctor to fight about whether or not Emily actually existed. Just what he'd always wanted. "Yes, sir."

Dr. Bumby nodded. "Good. While we're on the subject – Reginald, I believe it's time for your session. The rest of you, find other ways to amuse yourselves."

Reggie groaned and followed Dr. Bumby out of the room, while the rest of the children grumpily dispersed. Even with his annoyance over having to suffer through a second session, Victor couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief at not having to entertain them anymore. "Did you _really_ have to put me on the spot like that?" he asked as Alice passed by his chair with the broom.

"I'm sorry," she said, glancing up at him. "But I get tired sometimes of being forced to talk about how I murdered my way across my childhood dreamland. Having to recount the deaths of some people I considered friends is – shall we say, less than pleasant."

Victor averted his eyes. Right. He should have thought of that before complaining. "I see," he said, for lack of anything better.

"I didn't mean to get you another session with Dr. Bumby, though," she added, more sympathetically. "I hope you don't come out of that one with a headache."

"Me too," Victor agreed, picking up his book. "It's not _all_ bad – the part at the beginning, with him asking me to relax, is rather nice. I just wish we could keep it to _that_ , instead of the endless arguing that comes afterward."

"A quick nap on that couch probably would be more conducive to your well-being," Alice agreed. "I confess, though, I'm tempted to ask him to use tomorrow's session to make sure you never forget when you're holding a lit candle again."

"I _swear_ I've only done that the once," Victor repeated, holding up his hand again. "Usually the only victims of my lack of thinking are myself, vases, and plates."

"Radcliffe would hate you then," Alice mumbled.

"Radcliffe?"

"My family's old solicitor," Alice clarified. "Also works as a Queen's Barrister. He's obsessed with China and Japan. Spends most of his money collecting fine porcelain and other art from the East."

"Oh." Victor wondered for a moment what his mother would make of the man. She'd never been a fan of the East, but she did like expensive things. . . . "He sounds – interesting."

"He's a useless annoyance," Alice snapped, rolling her eyes. "He's the one in charge of whatever inheritance I've got left, and he refuses to let me have it. Says I haven't proven myself 'competent' yet." She glared down at the dust on the floor. "I don't know why Papa employed him. He's not much of a lawyer."

"I'm sorry," Victor said, feeling another wave of sympathy for her. Was there no end to the indignities she'd suffered? _She definitely lends perspective to what I'm going through. At least I still have a family, and money, and happy memories. I wish I could lend some of that to her._

"You need to find another way to express sympathy," Alice said, poking his arm with the broom handle. "I'm already tired of hearing 'I'm sorry' from you. It makes you sound like you think everything's your fault."

Victor bit back the automatic "I'm sorry" that came to his lips. "I – feel terrible about your unfortunate situation?" he tried.

"More like it." Alice gave him a rather tired-looking half-smile. "And I'll admit, it's nice having someone around who can say that genuinely. Most people just don't care."

"I care," Victor told her, frowning. Why was everyone in this city so thoughtless? "I know we haven't known each other all that long, but I want you to be happy. I like making people happy."

"Do you?" Alice gestured at his legs with the broom. "Well then, lift your feet so I can sweep under them."

Victor smiled and did so. "Anything else?"

"Just keep providing decent company." She smirked and patted him on the head. "Oh, and keep being hilarious when you're flustered. I like that."

Victor felt his face turning pink again. "I'm h-hilarious?"

"It was a compliment, I assure you." She turned and started chasing the dust away in another direction. "Speaking of which – your book is upside-down again."

"Oh – um – thank you." Victor flipped the text over and hid himself behind it. _I'm hilarious?_ he repeated to himself, turning the phrase over and over in his mind. _I don't find being flustered all that funny. . . . On the other hand, those nervous habits of mine don't seem likely to disappear anytime soon. And if I can bring a little happiness to someone's day. . .I suppose it's not so bad._ He shook his head. _Still – given a choice, I think I'd rather just draw her some more pictures of her Wonderland._


	8. Who Ya Gonna Call?

May 4th, 1875

Whitechapel, London's East End, England

1:13 P.M.

From the time he was three years old, Victor had always considered an angry Nell Van Dort to be the scariest person alive. He'd been quite certain that no one could strike fear into his heart like his mother on the warpath. But the dark scowl on Alice's face as he entered the front foyer immediately proved that assumption wrong. He lingered in the doorway, playing with his tie and resisting the urge to run back to his room and lock himself in. "Um – is s-something wrong?" he asked quietly.

Alice nailed him with a glare. "What do you care?" she snarled.

. . .Perhaps fighting the urge to flee was a bad idea. Victor took a step backward. "If I'm b-bothering you, I can go. . . ."

The glare faltered, then vanished as Alice sighed. "No, it's all right, I'm sorry," she said, voice low and tired. "I've just been having a bad day. Everything feels topsy-turvy in my mind. I keep seeing things out of the corner of my eye – worse things than usual, I mean. _And_ I have another session with Bumby soon, which _won't_ help matters." She shook her head, swiping a dustcloth across one of the tables. "You think my mind would give me some bloody relief on my birthday. . . ."

Victor, in the midst of struggling to find something comforting to say, stopped and blinked. "It's your birthday today?"

Alice nodded, eyes narrowed and lips set in a thin line. "Twenty bloody years on this earth, and only eight of them were any good," she grumbled. "I shouldn't have expected this one to be any different. Stuck here in the noisiest, smelliest, dirtiest place in the world, without anyone who gives even a quarter of a damn. . . ." She knocked an empty candlestick to the floor with another vicious swipe. "Would it be asking too much for my bad luck to leave me alone for a single day? Would it?"

Victor watched as she attacked the table with her cloth, violently shoving things around in her quest to eliminate dust. He'd never seen her look quite this upset. _Probably because all she can think about is her family, and what she's lost,_ he thought. _She hasn't got a single person to celebrate with, has she? The children don't care, I'm sure – they don't even bother about their_ own _birthdays. And I can't see Dr. Bumby as the sort to wish her glad tidings. . . ._ His eyebrows lowered, forming a line as he frowned. _It's not right. Everyone deserves something special on a day like today._

He nodded to himself, then headed for the front door. "Where are you going?" Alice asked, glancing up.

"Personal errand," Victor said. "I'll be back shortly."

Alice made a noise he supposed was acknowledgment and went back to beating up the table. Victor closed the door behind him and set off down the street, eying everyone around him warily. He'd avoided pickpockets so far, and he did _not_ want to run into one today. Alice could be excessively blunt, sarcastic, and self-centered at times, but she'd also been the best friend he'd had here. The fact that she liked his description of the afterlife – that even if she wasn't sure she believed him, she was willing to believe his "madness" was harmless – meant a lot. She still praised his drawings to the skies (in her own special way – "You really captured the way I feared for my life here"), and she wasn't above getting the children out of the Home on some excuse so he could play the piano in peace. And she'd been a most enlightening guide to the Whitechapel streets, translating slang and telling him the safest places a _nouveau riche_ boy like himself could linger. _She's done far more than she's needed to over this past month. It's about time I started paying her back for all of those kindnesses._ Victor twisted his fingers together thoughtfully. _Let's see. . .what is the one thing you absolutely_ must _have on your birthday?_

* * *

 _You are_ not _in the mining tunnels of the Village of the Doomed!_

Alice glared as thick wooden beams tried to crawl up a wall that was starting to resemble piled, almost brain-like stone. Under her fierce gaze, the ugly green wallpaper and faded grey-brown base moulding reasserted themselves. She nodded and used the dustcloth to pick a cobweb out of the corner. She was _not_ falling victim to her hallucinations today! Not on her birthday. It was bad enough she'd woken up this morning to the burnt-out remains of her old room – she'd nearly screamed before she realized her brain was playing tricks on her. _I suppose Wonderland is an improvement over that – but not much of one,_ she thought grumpily, straightening the sampler on the staircase landing. _"Home Safe Home" – hah, not at the moment. I bet before the day's done I'm going to attack someone with a butter knife, thinking they're a Jabberspawn. Won't_ that _be fun?_

"Hey, what you got there?" a squeaky voice came from the foyer.

"Smells like food!" another chimed in.

"Do pardon me, it's not for you–"

"Dr. Bumby always says to share!"

"Yeah, hand it over, Van Dort!"

"I will do no such thing!"

Wonderful – now she had to go rescue Victor from the brats. Like she didn't have enough to do. Grumbling to herself, Alice stalked down the hall and into the front room. Victor was trapped before the front entrance, holding a box above his head while the children crowded around him like little vultures. "It's not for you!" he protested as a few of them tried to jump for his prize.

"You've got parents! You can always buy another whatever it is!" Ollie said, grabbing at his arm. "Give it here!"

"Never!" Victor snapped, practically pressing the box against the ceiling.

"Oh, leave him alone!" Alice scolded, scowling at the children. "He's allowed to buy himself things. And to be selfish about them."

"Alice!" Victor abruptly held out the box to her. "This is for you."

Alice blinked, startled. "Me?" she said, hesitating a moment before reaching out and taking it.

Victor nodded, a shy smile on his face. "H-happy birthday."

This was a present? He'd – he'd gotten her a birthday present? In shock, Alice pulled the lid off the box.

To see a single slice of chocolate cake waiting for her.

Cake. He'd gotten her cake. He'd gotten her the most delicious slice of cake she'd ever seen in her entire life. She stood like a statue in the middle of the room, unable to stop staring at it. Actual moist, sweet-smelling, mouth-watering _cake_.

"Is it all right?" Victor's voice seemed to come from a million miles away. "I thought, it's not really a birthday without cake, and. . .you do like chocolate, don't you?"

"It's fine," she said, finally managing to tear her eyes away from her present. "Victor, I–"

And then she saw it, lurking in the corner. Her eyes narrowed as annoyance wiped away her pleasure. "Oh hell, not one of you!"

"W-what?" Victor said, retreating a step.

"Not you – _that_ ," Alice said, pointing at the Boojum hovering nearby. She knew he couldn't see it, but at least he'd know she didn't mean him. "Go away, you blasted banshee!" she added, glowering at the creature. "I don't need to go deaf on top of everything else!"

The Boojum just bared its teeth at her in a skull's grin. Its glowing eyes fell greedily on the cake held in her arms. "Oh no you don't – this is mine!" she snapped, holding the box as tight against herself as she could without squashing it. "Get your own!"

The children still gathered around Victor giggled. "Afraid the big bad Boojum's gonna eat your cake?" Reggie teased.

"Invisible things just _looove_ sweets," Abigail added mockingly.

"Be quiet!" Alice snapped, starting to back away. The Boojum followed her, its tattered black-and-white robes undulating behind it like ocean swells. "Stay back – I mean it!" she snarled. "I'll find something to hit you with, you see if I don't!"

The Boojum was unmoved by this threat, coming to a stop in front of her. Its rotted jaw opened wide, and Alice braced herself for the scream no one else would hear (lucky bastards) –

"You – you heard her! Go away!"

The Boojum stopped mid-inhale. Both its head and Alice's swivelled around to see Victor frowning hard at the Boojum, arms folded. _No – he's frowning at the empty space that I see filled with Boojum,_ Alice reminded herself. _Except – why is he telling it to go away then?_

The children seemed equally puzzled. "Uh, there's nothing there," Abigail said, arching an eyebrow.

"Alice clearly sees something," Victor said loyally. "And it's bothering her, and – go on with you!" he added in the Boojum's general direction, flicking his hand. "It's her birthday! She shouldn't have to deal with – whatever you are! So get!"

Alice had not been aware Boojums could gape. The look on the damn thing's face was just – just – Alice felt something bubbling up inside of her, something wonderfully light and warm, something she hadn't felt in over a decade –

And then she was laughing. Laughing at the shocked expression on the Boojum, and the too-serious expression on Victor, and the utter _ridiculousness_ of the whole situation. Someone was actually _arguing_ with one of her _hallucinations_! And the best part was, he seemed to be _winning_! She clutched her cake tightly against her middle, letting the laughter spill out of her in a joyous stream. This was completely mad – mad and stupid and the best thing to happen to her in years. It was just perfect.

The Boojum, realizing whatever menace it had possessed was well and truly gone, sulkily floated away, disappearing through a wall. The image of it stomping out like an upset child triggered a new explosion of giggles from Alice. She could feel everyone staring at her like she'd lost her mind (again), but she couldn't bring herself to care. She felt better than she had since she first stepped foot in Rutledge. "It's g-gone," she managed to say between snickers. "I'm fine, I r-really am. . .d-do excuse me. . . ."

She fled to her room, still giggling wildly. Oh, she knew she'd have to pay a price for all this mirth. The children were going to tease her for days over this. And it was likely both she and Victor would get a lecture from Dr. Bumby on not engaging anyone's hallucinations when he caught wind of it.

But it had been worth it.

* * *

Victor watched Alice flee the room. Well – she seemed happy enough, if that laughter was anything to go by. And apparently he'd been successful at chasing away her hallucination. Which was good – he'd felt rather silly yelling at an empty patch of floor. He'd just gotten so frustrated that his good deed was being interrupted. . . .

He became aware that all the children were staring at him like he was some sort of wizard. "What?" he asked, looking down at them.

"She _never_ laughs," Charlie said, voice hushed. "Never _ever_."

The other children nodded along, eyes wide. Victor stared back at them. Never laughed? Was that even possible? Then again. . .she'd told him he was hilarious before, but he'd never actually heard one good giggle out of her before today. Goodness, even a real smile was a rare sight. And the children had known her far longer than he had. "Really?"

"Really," Abigail said. "Not even at us. How'd you do that?"

"I – I haven't the slightest idea," Victor admitted with a shrug. When he'd started lecturing the Boojum, the last thing he'd expected was Alice falling into a fit of laughter. All he'd wanted to do was lend a helping hand to his friend.

"I think she _likes_ you," Ollie said, with a rather inappropriate grin for an eight-year-old.

Victor blushed and shook his head. "Oh no," he murmured. "I don't – s-she couldn't. . . ." _Someone like her would never fall in love with me – especially not after a mere month,_ he thought, squeezing his hands together. _And even if she did, it wouldn't last. Every time I fall in love with someone, they end up finding someone or something else that makes them happier. I don't want to have to go through that again. Not now, not ever – and particularly not with her. Abigail was right – that rehearsal was a sign that love is just not for me._

"She doesn't like anybody," Charlie said, rolling his eyes. "Even Dr. Bumby said so."

"And besides, why would she like him? He likes dead people," Abigail pointed out.

"I don't _like_ dead people," Victor snapped, wishing this would stop coming up nearly every time he was in the room.

"Sure you don't," Abigail smirked, the other children laughing. "That's why you tried to marry one."

Victor decided it wasn't worth getting into another argument about how the whole Emily situation had actually worked. The children were getting too much pleasure out of his supposed "appetites" to listen. "I'm going to make sure Alice is all right," he said instead. "That hallucination did look rather upsetting."

He left behind the snickering children and entered the hall. Alice's door was ajar, revealing her curled up on her bed next to her cake, shoulders shaking. Worry stabbed him in the gut. Had something happened in the minute she'd been gone? Had he embarrassed her by that display in the foyer? He knocked on the edge of the doorframe. "Alice?"

Alice lifted her head. Her eyes were a little teary, but she had a big smile on her face. "Hello," she said, a giggle still in her voice. "Sorry, I needed a moment to calm down." She wiped her eyes, then straightened her apron. "You should have seen the look on its face," she added, eyes glittering with amusement. "I wasn't aware those screamy bastards had expressions other than 'about to eat you' and 'about to burst your eardrums.'"

Victor smiled, relieved. He'd so wanted to turn her frown from before upside-down – it was good to know he'd succeeded. "You'll have to tell me more about them later," he said. "I could draw you another picture."

"Maybe – but really, you've done more than enough for me already," Alice said, lightly patting the cake box. "Did I say thank you for this?"

"I believe your Boojum – is that right? – interrupted."

"Right. Well then, thank you. I haven't gotten a present for my birthday in years. They don't tend to celebrate them in Rutledge." She looked down at the box. "And I haven't had cake in forever," she added, the want clear in her voice. "It's my favorite."

"I should have guessed – I still remember the way your eyes lit up when I first told you about my wedding cake," Victor chuckled. "I just – I saw how miserable you were earlier, and you've always been so kind to me. . .I wanted to do something nice for you."

"Kind? I can think of at least two occasions when I've been nothing but nasty to you. You're better than I deserve, Victor." Alice got to her feet and walked over to him. "But really – getting me that cake, and then _scolding_ one of my hallucinations. . . ." She smiled again. "That's the sweetest thing anyone's done for me in ages."

"I was happy to do it," Victor said, feeling warm all over. On impulse, he added, "You should smile – really smile – more often. You have a lovely smile."

"I could say the same for you." Alice tilted her head. "Speaking of which – when's your birthday?"

"Oh, you d-don't have to do anything for me–" Victor began, rubbing the back of his neck.

Alice poked him in the chest. "You've known me for a month. You should know by now I don't like being told what I can and can't do," she told him, her smile turning into a playful smirk. "Birthday. Now."

Victor laughed. "Yes ma'am. It's June 9th. I'm about a month younger than you."

"June? Really?" Alice squinted at him. "I would have sworn you were a winter child. You're too pale for summer."

Victor shook his head. "We all look like this in Burtonsville, Alice. I don't know why."

"Obviously, your village has forgotten what the sun looks like." Alice nodded. "June 9th. I'll remember. Even if I forget everything else, I'll remember that." She made a move like she wanted to embrace him, hesitated, then extended her hand for a handshake instead. "Thank you again. You're – you're a really good friend."

Victor shook, feeling another wave of warmth from the contact. "So are you. Happy birthday, Alice. And enjoy that cake."

"Oh, I will. If the vultures don't come circling first," Alice said, looking around him. Victor glanced back to see a few children peeking into the hall, greedy gleams in their eyes. "You saw how they were when you brought that in. They'll be begging me soon for 'just a taste. . . .'"

"I'll keep them distracted," Victor promised, turning away from her. He clapped his hands together. "Would you all like to hear about the Ball & Socket?"

Greed turned to curiosity. "What's that?"

"It's a pub Downstairs. . . ." Victor started as he herded the children back into the front foyer. It felt rather weird to volunteer himself as storyteller. And he had no doubt this latest tale would just get him teased even more for loving dead people. Plus a lecture from Dr. Bumby, should he catch them. But. . .he looked over his shoulder and saw Alice give him one last, brilliant smile. He grinned back. To see her look so happy –

It was worth it.


	9. THREE Steps, Master Van Dort

May 16th, 1875

Whitechapel, London's East End, England

10:42 A.M.

The music filled his head, drowning out the everyday sounds of the world around him. Victor fancied he could almost see it, floating through the air as if it were alive. He studied the progression of the melody as it unfurled itself before his eyes. C-minor or D-minor? A half-note here or a quarter-note? You had to be careful – the slightest misstep could throw off the whole –

"Ow!"

Victor stumbled backward, just barely avoiding crashing into the hallway endtable as the regular world reasserted itself on his senses. More specifically, as the doorframe in front of him reminded his face that yes, it existed, and no, he did not yet have the ability to walk through it. He rubbed his sore nose, feeling rather an idiot. Why did he never think to _stop_ walking when he got into these moods?

"Did you _really_ just walk into a wall, or was I hallucinating again?"

Victor turned around, this time actually hitting the endtable with his hip. Alice was at the other end of the hall, watching him with an expression of mixed amusement and concern. "I know you're not always the best at looking at where you're going, but usually you're aware when you're about to introduce your face to the architecture," she continued. "Is your nose all right?"

"Yes, fine," Victor said, looking away as his cheeks flushed. "I'm sorry, I was a bit distracted. . . ."

"Why are you apologizing to me? You should be apologizing to that poor, innocent doorframe," Alice joked. Victor smiled, despite his embarrassment. "Where was your head?"

"I was composing a new piece for the piano," Victor admitted, the remains of the melody swimming before his eyes for a moment. He tucked them away into a mental folder for later review. "I tend to forget the world around me when it comes to music."

"Oh yes, you proved that back in April," Alice nodded, leaning against the wall. "And I thought I was good at going off into my own little world. I suppose I should be grateful you haven't broken anything yet."

"Any parts of my body, or anything you'd have to clean up?" Victor had to ask.

"Both. We're quite fortunate Dr. Bumby doesn't have a taste for expensive china. And that you generally avoid serious injury when you walk around in a dream." Her expression turned curious. " _Have_ you ever broken anything?"

Victor shook his head. "I've been extraordinarily lucky in that regard," he said, feeling a wave of gratefulness toward whatever power protected him during his moments of klutziness. "No broken bones, and almost nothing that's left a permanent mark."

"Almost?"

Victor patted his left leg. "When I was – five, I think? – I fell into a rosebush. I had to fight my way out of the thorns, and while my clothes protected most of me, this leg got scratched badly enough to leave a few tiny scars." He chuckled. "I told everyone I'd had an argument with the roses, and that they'd won."

Alice snickered. "Roses are nasty like that," she agreed, nodding as her smile changed to a frown. "You're lucky to have avoided any that launched their thorns at you."

"Wonderland?" Victor guessed.

"Yes – fortunately a croquet ball to the bloom followed by a knife to the stem generally got them out of my hair." Alice made a face. "Still, I've never been quite as fond of roses as I used to be after that. Even if I do know the ones in this world don't have it in for me."

"No, just me," Victor joked, and was pleased to see her smile a little. "You're fortunate that whatever damage they did in Wonderland couldn't leave scars."

"Indeed – otherwise I'd be the ugliest woman in the world," Alice agreed. "The fire did enough damage to my skin."

Victor blinked, then looked her up and down, one eyebrow raised. "You – look perfectly well to me," he said slowly.

"Yes, and it's something I'm beyond grateful for," Alice replied, grimacing. "I've talked to the doctors who treated me at Littlemore Infirmary. They told me it was a miracle I healed as well as I did. One of them said he fully expected me to lose the use of my hands." She extended her arms straight out, spreading and flexing her fingers. "I was burnt to a crisp – and I was the lucky one who made it out before the roof caved in."

Victor's own fingers twitched as he pictured it. The very idea of not being able to use one's hands anymore. . .it made his insides turn to ice. He didn't know _what_ he'd do if he couldn't play the piano or draw. "I'm v-very glad it didn't come to that," he said, fighting the urge to hug himself.

"So am I," Alice said. "But don't think I don't have scars. House fires are not known for their gentleness." She rubbed her left shoulder, looking through him into the middle distance. "They just devour. . .everything. . . ."

Victor got the feeling she was seeing her home burn all over again. A wave of sympathy washed over him. How horrible it must be, to be haunted for the rest of your life by the screams of your family, knowing there was nothing you could do to save them. . . . He started toward her, not sure what he was going to do but wanting somehow to help.

Right on cue, his leg hooked one of the endtable's, sending him crashing to the ground. _At least that snapped her out of it,_ he thought as she blinked and looked down at him. "Ow."

Alice shook her head and offered him a hand up. "I think you'd better find a place to sit down," she told him. "Walking does not appear to be your forte today."

"I'd say that's true," Victor agreed, taking the offered appendage. His left ankle twinged as he got back to his feet, making him wince. "Ooh. . . ."

"Oh no, don't tell me you _have_ broken something this time," Alice said, quickly moving to support him.

"No, no, I think I just twisted my ankle a little," Victor reassured her, taking a cautious step. The ankle bore his weight, though not without protest. "I've sprained it before, and I know that how much that hurts. I don't even want to think about how a break might feel."

"Oh? Did a rosebush attack you that time too?"

"No, it was a rock," Victor said, glad to tell the story if it would help keep Alice's mind off her own troubles. "I was playing with my dog Scraps in a field on the edges of town one day, and I stepped wrong on a stone and sprained my right ankle. It hurt too much to get up, so I sent Scraps off to get help from my governess and parents. Once he finally got their attention–"

"Wait, what?" Alice interrupted, frowning at him. "'Finally?' How long did it take them to find you?"

The sudden awkwardness was like a stone in his gut. "Um – it was o-only about a hour," he said weakly, rubbing the back of his head. "Father said Miss Horrocks – she was my governess at the time – and Mother were having a fight, and together they managed to drown out Scraps's barking. . . ."

"Only a hour," Alice echoed, staring at him like he'd lost his mind. "My parents and nanny would have noticed my absence and started searching in a quarter of that time. Especially if I'd somehow managed to convince Dinah – our cat – to get their attention. What sort of argument was so important as to ignore the fact you were lost?"

"I don't know. Father didn't say." Victor started to shift nervously from side to side, then winced again as his ankle reminded him that wasn't a good idea. "They were horrified when they found me, i-if that helps. Rushed me straight to the doctor." He decided not to mention he'd been sobbing by the time they arrived, half-convinced they were never coming and that he was going to rot in that field.

"As well they should have been," Alice said, scowling. "I hope you got an apology for being left out there so long!"

"Yes, I did," Victor assured her. "Everyone was appropriately contrite."

"Good." She huffed, then looked up at him. "Perhaps I'm making a mountain out of a molehill, and I'm sure you're over it by now, but – just the thought annoys me. If it had been my family – well, if it had been my family, either Nanny or Lizzie would have been with me when I had the accident in the first place."

"Did you and your sister play together often?" Victor said, unable to help his curiosity. Being an only child, he'd never really known how siblings got on. Alice was a fascinating source of information when she was in the mood to talk.

"Not as much as I would have liked," Alice sighed. "She was older than me by ten years, after all. Her time was mainly spent reading or having lessons on etiquette, penmanship, music, French. . .everything that made one a 'proper lady.' By the time of – you know – she was starting to think about serious relationships." She smiled briefly. "Mostly about how much she didn't want one with the 'toadies' at the university. Sometimes I wonder who she would have married – if she married at all."

There was that sad look again. Victor touched her shoulder. "I'm so sorry for everything you've lost," he whispered.

"Thank you," Alice replied, just as quietly. "So am I." Looking back up at him, she added, "And I'm sorry your childhood wasn't as pleasant as mine."

"Oh, it was fine," Victor rushed to assure her. "Perhaps my parents weren't as – involved as yours, but I had Scraps, and plenty of ways to occupy my time." He chuckled as old memories of running around in the woods, Scraps barking at his heels, returned to his mind. "One of my favorite games was pretending I was a jungle explorer, looking for new species of butterflies in Africa or the Amazon."

Alice laughed. "You and your butterflies. I pretended I was a knight for a while."

"A knight?"

"It was much more fun than being a damsel in distress." She grinned wickedly. "I once tried to hit Nanny with my hobby horse, pretending she was a giantess. I missed and nearly put a hole in the wall. Papa was furious."

Victor snickered. "Oh dear. Mother would have _murdered_ me if I'd done that, I'm sure. It was bad enough seeing her angry looks every time I knocked something over."

"You know, in two months of knowing you, I have yet to hear you speak about your mother in a pleasant mood. Does she just hate everything?"

"No – she loves hats. And talking about how the nobility does things. And how she deserves to have better than a fish merchant's life."

Alice arched an eyebrow. "Then why did she marry a fish merchant?"

"Father told me about it once. Apparently Mother marched up to him one day in the market and told him he'd do as a husband. I think she wanted to marry someone rich who could get her noticed by the upper classes. Father said he was all for 'upward mobility,' so he agreed to court her, and – um – that was that." Victor frowned at the wall. Truth be told, he'd always been troubled by how – _businesslike_ that whole story sounded. His parents didn't seem bothered by it, so he supposed he shouldn't be either, but still. . . . "I suppose they love each other. Deep down."

Alice looked dubious. "My parents met at the marketplace too, but Mama approached Papa because she thought he was rather handsome and wanted to get to know him better. None of this 'you'll do' business."

Victor could only shrug. "Mother and Father are happy enough together. At least, I've never seen any evidence otherwise." He let out a tiny hiss of pain as he accidentally transferred more weight to his bad ankle. "And even if they weren't, neither of them would want the scandal of a divorce – if they could even get one."

"I'll have to take your word for it, seeing I've only ever seen them once." Alice frowned at his leg. "That's right, we were finding somewhere to sit. You should probably stay off that foot for a while."

"Probably," Victor agreed. He limped along with Alice into his bedroom, where she sat him firmly on the bed. "I – I sort of wish I'd known you when you were younger," he added on impulse.

"Why? Tired of knowing the sarcastic, broken me?" Alice said with a smirk. "No offense taken, I'm tired of knowing this me as well."

"No, no, I like you f-fine," Victor said hurriedly. "It's just – hearing about your childhood – I think it might have been fun to be your playmate. And I really do wish I could have met your family."

Alice gave him a rather melancholy smile. "I wish you could have too. I think they would have liked you, for what it's worth. Can't say about the rest of your family, but you – yes."

Victor felt a little surge of inner warmth. "I think I would have liked them as well."

Alice nodded. "Well, as nice as revisiting our more innocent days has been, I'm supposed to be going to the grocery to pick up a few things for dinner. You sit there and rest for now – and watch that ankle. And don't go bumping into any more innocent doorframes."

"I'll stay put," Victor promised. "Could you please hand me my sketchbook, though? So I have something to look at?"

Alice did so. "I'll check up on you later."

Victor smiled at her. "All right. Have a good trip."

"As opposed to your bad one?" Alice smirked. Victor laughed and nodded. "I'll try, although I'd prefer not to trip at all. Goodbye for now." She headed out the door.

Victor watched her go, then smiled to himself. _She really is a nice girl,_ he thought, swinging his legs up onto the bed and carefully probing his ankle. A little sore, but no swelling – he should be fine by the end of the day. _And although it would have been nice to know her when she was younger, I don't regret meeting her at this age one bit._ Feeling quite good for someone who'd recently sustained multiple minor injuries, he opened his sketchbook and began to examine his old drawings.


	10. Save Me From The Dark

May 25th, 1875

Whitechapel, London's East End, England

2:04 P.M.

"Hmph, why can't they make their own beds for–"

The sounds of a door being flung open and running feet yanked Alice out of her annoyed musings. Startled, she looked up to see Victor collapse against the wall across from the boys' room, gulping down air like he'd just run a marathon. He was paler than normal (a feat she still found astonishing), and trembling violently. Alice couldn't help but stare. _What the – what did Dr. Bumby_ do _to him in there?_ "Victor?" she asked, leaving Ollie's bed half-done behind her. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine!" Victor said a bit too quickly. He sucked in another breath, his eyes fixed on the floor in front of him. His knuckles were whiter than white as he clung to the corner. "I'm fine," he repeated, voice softer. "I'm fine."

Oh no. Alice knew better than that. She'd seen this sort of behavior at the asylum – any time someone started repeating something over and over, there was going to be trouble. "No, you're not," she said, folding her arms and frowning at him. "What happened?"

Victor finally raised his head. His eyes were haunted – and faintly red, she noted with a start. Had he been _crying_? "My session – d-didn't go well," he whispered, swallowing.

"That's obvious," Alice replied, looking him up and down. "What on earth did Dr. Bumby dig up?"

"Nothing – it wasn't a memory," Victor tried to explain, wiping some sweat from his face. "Not really. We didn't even get that far. He was talking about floating, and he happened to mention it was d-dark, and I told him I didn't like that. . . ." His breathing quickened again. "And he asked why, and I – t-then he told me it was nothing to fear – and he m-made me – and–"

"And how you're getting any air into your lungs is beyond me!" Alice interrupted, staring at his rapidly-moving chest. "Deep breaths, Victor, all right? Calm down."

Victor, however, seemed unable to hear her, his gaze fixed on some mysterious middle distance. "He – he said he was trying to – trying to help – s-something about 'desensitization,' whatever that is – but it felt like – like he was p-punishing me for – for resisting him so much – for being bad s-stupid _w-w-worthless_ –"

Alice gaped as he bent over again, eyes squeezed shut and gasping like a drowning man. She'd known Victor was a pile of nerves – she still liked to tease him sometimes just to watch him get all flustered. The way he stammered and played with his tie was rather cute. This full-blown panic attack, however. . .this was _scary_. Victor looked like he was about to keel over any minute. But what could she do? She wasn't a psychiatrist, and the only one around appeared to be responsible for this mess. _Damn it, Bumby, sometimes I wonder how good you really are,_ she thought, hands bunching up briefly into fists. _Now I've got to figure out how to calm him down before he forgets how to breathe entirely. But how?_

A mad idea came to her – try what she had almost done on her birthday, when he'd come to check up on her and she'd thanked him for the cake. She'd balked at the last minute then, her old fears about getting that close to anyone again preventing her from taking the final step. After all, it seemed everyone she dared let into her heart in any capacity suffered horribly somehow.

 _But he's already suffering,_ she told herself. _And what else can I do? I can't leave him_ alone _like this. . . ._ Shoving away all her fiddly little worries and doubts, Alice threw her arms around Victor and hugged him tightly.

Victor froze, his breath catching in his throat. For a terrifying moment Alice worried her plan had backfired. Then he let out a long, low sigh, and his chest started moving again at a much less frantic pace. "Sorry," he whispered, sounding deeply embarrassed.

"It's all right," Alice said, trying to keep her relief from being too obvious. Hoping to get a smile out of him, she added, "You're easier to hug than I expected. I thought it would be like hugging the trunk of a birch tree. Granted, you're as stiff and pale as one at the moment, but. . . ." But there was actually some softness on that absurdly-skinny frame of his. It was – kind of nice.

He chuckled in her ear. "I'm glad." After a moment's hesitation, he added in a quieter voice, "I haven't been hugged in ages. . . ." His arms wrapped around her awkwardly – like he wasn't quite sure what he should be doing with his hands. "I'm sorry, I didn't m-mean to worry you. . . ."

"It's rather hard not to worry about someone who looks like he's doing his damndest to render himself unconscious," Alice informed him, pulling away a bit so she could see his face. "Care to talk about it? Or will that just send you spiraling back into the black depths of panic?"

Victor looked at her, then away. "'Black depths' is about right," he mumbled. "I – um. . . ." His eyes fixed on the light streaming in through the boys' room's window. "This may sound odd, but can we go outside? I think I'll be able to talk about it easier if I'm in the sun."

"Of course." The beds could wait. Alice took Victor's hand and led him downstairs. Abigail, playing in the hallway, noticed Victor's face and started to ask what was wrong, but Alice waved her off as they rushed past. _Oh no you don't. The last thing he needs right now is one of you brats spouting off about things you don't understand._

Outside, the air was almost clear – at least, one could tell that the sky was blue – and the sun warm against her skin. Despite the nice weather, there didn't seem to be a lot of people about. _Good,_ Alice thought with a nod. _That gives us some privacy._ "Better?" she asked Victor as they started toward the outdoor market, still hand-in-hand.

"Much," Victor said, taking a deep breath and letting it out in a whoosh. He already looked ten times more relaxed than before. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet – I'm still curious as to what put you in that state in the first place."

Victor bit his lip, then turned away from her, shoulders hunched. "You'll – you'll t-think I'm silly. . . ."

"Maybe, but that doesn't mean I'm any less curious," Alice replied. "Besides, I want to know what to avoid bringing up so I don't ever have to see you like that again. You managed to frighten me a little – and if you're not one of my hallucinations, that's a pretty mean feat." She gave his arm a gentle tug. "I promise I won't make fun of you for it."

Victor peeked back at her. "Well. . .all right," he said, turning back around. "Like I said before, we didn't even get past the very beginning of the session. Dr. Bumby told me he wanted to see if he could get me deeper than I usually go. He was going on and on about relaxing and floating, and I was actually enjoying myself until he happened to say that it was just me, him, and the darkness." He began to fiddle with his tie. "And – um – I don't – t-that is to say–"

"You're scared of the dark?" Alice said, slightly amused. Only slightly, though – the image of him bent over and hyperventilating like mad was still clear in her mind's eye.

Victor rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. "Not – it's a very specific _sort_ of dark. I'm fine if there's at least some light. Moonlight or candlelight or even a single ember from a fire – so long as I can see _something_. But total darkness? The kind where you can't even see your hand in front of your face?" He shivered. "I hate that. I feel like – like I'm trapped with a m-monster, one that's all around me. . .and I can't get away, no matter how hard I try. . .the darkness choking me, suffocating me, trying to d-digest me in its insides. . . ."

Alice nearly said, "So _you've_ had an experience with those carnivorous mushrooms too?" but stopped herself. It sounded too much like she was mocking him, and that wasn't the case at all. "It sounds horrible," she said instead, giving his hand a sympathetic squeeze. "It's nothing to be ashamed of, though. I was scared of the dark myself, when I was – younger. . . ."

She trailed off, frowning. Something about that was important. Something about – a nightlight? Well, if she'd been scared of the dark, of course she would have had one. Mama and Papa would have never left her to suffer. But – there was something else about it, something. . . . Something she couldn't remember, damn it! "Hnnh!" she growled, gritting her teeth. Why did her mind insist on keeping all the memories she _wanted_ to remember to itself?

"Alice?"

Alice shook her head, turning her attention back to Victor. "Don't mind me – there's something about that and a nightlight that I feel is important, but of course I can't put my finger on it." She glared at a nearby bin of "fresh" potatoes to relieve her feelings. "It's the _wrong_ memories that always get my attention. . . ."

"I'm sorry," Victor said, returning her squeeze. "I didn't mean to upset you."

" _You_ didn't upset me, my inability to figure out my own bloody past did. I didn't mean to interrupt your story. Unless you wanted me to interrupt so you didn't have to tell it."

Victor smiled weakly. "I wouldn't mind. . . ." He sighed. "Anyway, I told Dr. Bumby I didn't like the dark, and he said that was a childish fear I should have gotten over. Which is probably true, but. . . . Then he asked me why I was afraid of it. And I – I told him about this n-nightmare I sometimes have. . . ."

He trailed off, eyes focused on that middle distance again. Alice waited, unsure if she should say anything. Finally, she cracked. "Victor, if you really–"

"No, it's just – it's horrible. F-for me, anyway," he qualified, fiddling with the end of his tie. "You'll think it's stupid, most likely. . . ." His gaze dropped to his feet. "I'm in the dark, and I'm all alone – except for these voices. Telling me I'm – I'm not f-fit to be around others, I'm worthless, I'm s-stupid, I'm a – a bad boy," he mumbled, cheeks burning. "And no matter where I go, no matter what I do, I can't get away. Add onto that the feeling like I'm about to be torn to s-shreds by the darkness itself, and–" He pulled his hand out of hers to hug himself. "I know it sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud, but for me – there's not a word to describe just how t-terrifying it really is. It was the cause of a lot of b-bed-wetting when I was younger. Even today it robs me of sleep – not that I need any help in _that_ department," he added grouchily, rolling his eyes.

Ah – what he'd went through was _worse_ than carnivorous mushrooms. "I do understand, actually," Alice said, absent-mindedly rubbing her arm. "When I was fighting my way through Wonderland, before I could do anything about the Queen of Hearts, I had to confront her right-hand dragon – the Jabberwock. The first time I met him, he'd made his lair at the very top of the Land of Fire and Brimstone – in a burning copy of my old home. And almost the moment I'd gotten there, he started in on me about – about how I didn't do anything to save my family." She squeezed her eyes shut as it all came back to her – the hot stink of smoke and ash, the flames with their distorted, screaming faces licking the sides of the floor, the scorched black crumbling skeleton of what had once been _home_. . .and those words, those awful, soul-crushing words. . . . _"You selfish, misbegotten, and unnatural child! You smelled the smoke, but you were in dreamland taking tea with your friends. You couldn't be bothered. Your room was protected and spared, while your family upstairs roasted in an inferno of incredible horror!"_

She felt an arm go around her, and for a moment panicked that it was the Jabberwock's claw – but no, this touch was far too gentle, far too comforting. Far too human. "I know you tell me I say this too much but – I'm so sorry for you," Victor's voice whispered. "That must have been terrible."

"It was," Alice murmured, letting her head rest for a moment against his shoulder. Anyone else she would have shaken off with various degrees of politeness, but. . .his arm felt – right, around her. Maybe it was because she could feel just how genuinely concerned he was. It was nice. "I still have nightmares about it. About what might have happened if Gryphon hadn't shown up to help me when he did." She opened her eyes and looked up at him, a dangerous smile on her face. "But I paid that monster back for those words. I don't care what he tried to tell me – I _didn't_ kill my family. What happened was – was an accident." Except there was still that niggle in the back of her head, that smidgen of doubt. . . . She shoved it away, out of her mind. "You should yell back at your voices – tell them to leave you alone."

"I've tried. It doesn't work," Victor muttered. "Believe me, I've tried everything I can think of to stop that dream, but it just keeps coming back." He shuddered. "I told Dr. Bumby that too, but he said that darkness always has its place, and I should learn to accept that. Then he m-made me live through the dream. Told me it would help 'desensitize' me to it. All it did was make me feel even more miserable then I usually do during a session." He shook his head, pressing his fingers against his eyes. "He finally relented after I started crying and b-begged him to stop."

Alice rolled her eyes. Typical Bumby. "He's done that to me a few times too – run roughshod over my desires. It's just the way he is – he knows his way is the best, and your opinion is not wanted. Never mind that it's your brain on the line. It can make therapy with him an experience, as you well know." She sighed. "Still, I suppose he's trying to help."

"I'll thank him not to help me like _that_ anymore," Victor grumbled. "Even fighting with him about Emily is preferable."

"It still amazes me how determined you are to keep her memory alive," Alice admitted. "Even with almost everyone around you telling you she wasn't real."

"She _was_ real, and I just _can't_ forget her," Victor told her, frowning. "She was important to me. It's like you with your family. You may want to forget the details of what happened to them, but you don't want to forget _them_ , now do you?"

Alice shot him a glare. "Of course not!" she snapped. "They're my family. How could I ever let myself forget them?"

Victor nodded. "And how could I ever let myself forget someone I loved? Forgetting her, denying her existence, feels like the ultimate betrayal. Besides, she _was_ forgotten for far too long. She deserves to be remembered."

Alice was silent for a moment, digesting that. She still wasn't sure what to make of Victor's story, if she were honest with herself. He talked about Emily and the afterlife with such conviction, one couldn't help but be drawn in. . .and yet, she knew that no one could really raise the dead. If they could, she'd be down at the Oxford vault where her family was interred, saying a proper goodbye before the maggots picked them clean. Besides, she of all people knew how much detail one could place into a hallucination. She was willing to accept the parts of his tale that involved living people as real, but the rest. . . .

Still, he seemed completely normal otherwise. And his stories of the Land of the Dead always entertained her. What was the harm in humoring him? "I suppose you're right. It must have been a lonely afterlife for her, waiting and waiting for a husband."

Victor nodded again, eyes sad. "I still feel awful for her," he whispered. "Murdered by someone she loved, then trapping herself in a sort of limbo because she was so desperate to get married. . . ."

"When she could have been having loads of fun in the Ball & Socket with the rest of the Dead," Alice said, nudging him playfully.

Victor chuckled. "Yes, exactly. I've never quite understood why the Land of the Dead exists, but – the idea of it being the final stop for earthly pleasures appeals to me. One last hurrah, where you can do all the things you wanted to do in life but never were able to."

"Sounds reasonable," Alice agreed. "And then, afterwards, you explode into butterflies to everyone's bewilderment."

"I don't know if it always has to be butterflies," Victor said, smiling. "Though I know that's how I'd want to go."

"No, really? Those sketches all over your walls didn't give me any clue," Alice deadpanned.

"Oh, Alice, you know me," Victor said, trying to adopt a mock-serious expression but unable to quite hide his grin. "I just hate–"

"Here now, what are you doing hanging onto her?"

Victor and Alice both started. Alice peered around her friend to see one of the East End's many prostitutes leering at him. Damn, she hadn't even noticed they'd wandered into that part of town. She'd half-forgotten they'd been walking in the first place. "A handsome boy like yourself could do so much better," the woman added, showing off her yellowed teeth in what Alice supposed passed for a smile.

Victor gaped at the woman for a moment, then shut his mouth with a snap. "No, thank you," he said, frowning and backing up a step.

"Oh come on, I'm sure you're eager to dab it up with someone," the prostitute said, running a long nail up Victor's sleeve. "Only the best for such a good-looking customer."

"He said no," Alice snapped, scowling.

"Stay out of this, you ugly dollymop," the woman said, not even looking at her. "Leave this sort of thing to the professionals."

Victor's eyes narrowed. "I am very much _not_ interested," he said, moving away from the prostitute again. "I've said as much every _other_ time you and your ilk have insisted on calling to me. And I'll thank you not to call my friend names."

"Friend? Is that what you're calling 'em these days?" The prostitute smirked. "I can do twice the tricks she can, darling."

Alice seized Victor's wrist. "Come on, let's get out of here," she said, pulling him back the way they'd come. "Before I do something I regret."

Victor nodded and followed, shooting a departing glare at the prostitute. She returned it tenfold. "All right then, be that way! Everyone knows the swells can't get theirs up anyway!" she yelled after them.

A few of the other people in the street stopped and snickered, making Victor blush. "Ignore them," Alice said, leading him down the street. "She's just upset she wasn't able to get anything off you."

"I would never visit one of them," Victor said, squeezing his eyes shut and grimacing. "Could never. I'd ask how _anyone_ could, but –"

"Well, the madams and pimps who run the brothels around here live pretty well," Alice told him, thinking of Nanny Sharpe and her small empire in the Mangled Mermaid pub. "And when you're starving on the street, anything seems acceptable. It's sadly one of the best ways to make a pound or two around here."

Victor sighed. "I guess if both parties are willing. . .but I'd never be able to. Besides, they're–"

"Uglier than sin?" Alice asked, slowing back down to a walk.

"I would have put it a bit more delicately." Victor adjusted his tie. "She's not the first I've encountered out here, but she's the first to get that _close_. Usually they're content to just show off and offer their – _services_ from a distance." He shuddered. "I try to walk past them as quickly as possible, both to avoid the offers and the abuse after I refuse." He frowned and looked down at Alice. "Though I've been meaning to ask you – what exactly makes someone a 'swell?' I understand it's an insult, but I've been unable to puzzle out just what it is they're insulting. 'Can Dort' from the children back home was much easier to figure out."

"It's referring to your clothes," Alice said, waving her hand at his suit. "They recognize you as someone who's got money. That's why they pester you so much, and why they're so annoyed when you refuse – they think you can give them a good fee. If you ever did – partake – you'd probably be charged double the normal price."

"Never," Victor said with another shudder. "Do I want to know what 'dollymop' means?"

"She was saying I was an amateur version of her," Alice said, shrugging. "Nothing I haven't heard before. It's hard to be a woman on these streets and not be accused of selling your backside."

Victor scowled. "Vile," he muttered. "Nobody at home talked like that, and I should know. I was the main victim of all the bullies there."

"That's life in the East End for you. Although perhaps your bullies were just not very creative when it came to insults."

"Fair enough – 'Can Dort' was really the best they could do." Victor shook his head. "It's depressing, how many horrible people are in the world."

"You _were_ sheltered as a child, weren't you?"

"Comes of growing up rich, I think. And in a town miles from anyone else." Victor tilted his head. "Wasn't Oxford a nice place to live, though?"

"It was, but even it had its share of annoyances," Alice told him. "You should have seen the undergraduates at the college. Lizzie hated them, and with good reason. Most of them seemed to consider her some sort of prize to be won from Papa." For a moment, an unformed memory floated before her eyes – something about a particular student bothering Lizzie more than the others – but it was gone before she could grasp it, much like the one with her nightlight. Alice huffed. Bloody memories, never cooperating when she needed them to. . . .

"I see. I'd convey my apologies to your sister if I could," Victor said.

"And I think she'd actually accept them, coming from you." Alice shook off the cobwebs of the past and tugged on Victor's arm. "Come on, we'd better get back to the Home. I've still got beds to make. Are you feeling better, at least?"

"Much," Victor nodded, then shrugged. "Well, except for being annoyed by that woman."

"Better than being frightened out of your wits, right?"

Victor nodded again, smiling. "Yes, true. Thank you for putting up with me."

Alice smiled back. "You put up with me all the time. What's good for the gander is good for the goose. Now hurry it up before Dr. Bumby notices us missing."


	11. Unpleasant Pre-Birthday Surprises

June 8th, 1875

Whitechapel, London's East End, England

3:12 P.M.

Alice tiptoed out of her room, carefully choosing each step to avoid creaks in the floorboards. Victor's door was open a crack – after a moment's indecision, she went ahead and took a peek. Her friend was lying on his bed, absorbed in a book. Nodding, she slipped away, creeping into the front foyer. To her immense relief, the only child in there was Charlie, and he was quite busy playing solitaire. She sneaked by him, then grinned as she darted out the front door. This couldn't have worked out any better if she'd planned it. Children and Victor all amusing themselves, and Dr. Bumby busy in his office with explicit instructions not to be disturbed. It was the perfect moment to slip out and buy a birthday present for a certain special someone.

Perhaps most people wouldn't consider this a mission that required such stealth, but Alice knew better. She didn't want Victor to catch the slightest hint of what his present would be. She wanted to give him a real surprise – something that would equal the divine cake he'd given her for her birthday. Something that would get him to smile again. He hadn't been doing a lot of that for the past fortnight. Turning a year older seemed to be sending his thoughts down dark and lonely paths. He'd told her a few days ago, after she'd caught him staring blankly at the wall in his room, that he felt like he was stuck in a world of children, more or less – unable to grow up, unable to have a normal life. That was a sentiment Alice could definitely sympathize with (as Victor himself had realized halfway through, stammering out apologies as he did). It was heartbreaking to see him moping around, staring out windows at the people passing by like a puppy waiting for a long-lost master. Not to mention he looked exhausted half the time – Alice had a sneaking suspicion that the nightmare he'd told her about, with the darkness and the voices, had come along to trouble him in the wake of the session that had sent him running from Dr. Bumby's office. _Brilliant work there, doctor,_ she thought, rolling her eyes as she turned her steps toward the shops. _I thought your job was all about_ ridding _people of painful memories and fears, not making them_ stronger _._ With all that weighing on Victor, Alice wanted to make his birthday special – something to be celebrated, not feared.

Fortunately, after quite a lot of fruitless brainstorming, she finally had an idea for the perfect gift for her friend. She'd engaged him in conversation yesterday about his art in an attempt to perk him up, and it turned out that he wasn't merely a master of the inkpot and quill pen – Victor Van Dort apparently enjoyed painting from time to time too. He'd spoken wistfully of his easel and oils, gathering dust in his parents' house, and of paintings he'd made of butterflies and landscapes. Hearing him go on like that, looking almost his old self, had gotten her thinking. On her low salary, easel, canvas, and oils were beyond her reach. But a paintbrush, and a few cheap watercolors? She could afford that. Perhaps it wouldn't be as fancy as what he'd left behind in Burtonsville, but she was certain he would appreciate the gift nonetheless. And, if he was feeling up to it, maybe she could convince him to try adding a bit of color to some of his Wonderland –

"Alice!"

_Oh, damn._

With extreme reluctance, Alice turned around to see the face – well, mostly the nose – of one Priscilla "Pris" Witless, former night nurse at Rutledge Asylum and current drunken pain-in-the-arse. "Nurse Witless," she said, voice cool. _Ugh, she'd just have to show her ugly mug today. . . ._

Witless grinned at her in a way Alice guessed was supposed to be friendly. "How are you today, dearie?" she asked, sidling closer. "Lovely weather, isn't it?"

"Much better than the pea-souper we had the other day, yes," Alice replied, eyes shifting left and right. What was the best way to extract herself from this situation? She didn't have long before someone would notice her missing. . . .

"Mmm. My pigeons like the sunshine much better," Witless agreed. Her face dropped into a calculated piteous frown. "Poor things are running a bit low on feed and water. . .and I could do with a drink myself. . . ."

Alice sighed. "Nurse Witless, I'm rather busy at the moment," she said, stepping backward.

"Too busy to favor an old woman with a pound or two?" Witless tched, shaking her head. "You have some to spare, I'm certain."

"No, I don't," Alice said shortly. "I need every penny of what I've got."

Witless's eyes narrowed suspiciously behind her glasses. "Whatever for? You don't buy anything but pills, and Dr. Bumby pays for those. Surely you can give something to an old friend."

 _Old friend? Ha! If I ever stopped getting paid, you'd forget I existed._ "This money is for a birthday present – for a _real_ friend," Alice told her, turning around. "You'll have to bother me another day for tuppence."

"A _real_ friend?" Witless repeated, confused. "You don't have – Ooooh, wait. . . ." She grabbed Alice's arm. "It's that Van Dort boy, isn't it? Trying to curry a little favor? Convince him to take you away from all this?"

The smarmy tone in Witless's voice got right up Alice's nose. She shot the old drunkard her best glare over her shoulder. "I _genuinely like_ him," she snarled. "I'm not trying to manipulate him into anything."

"Shame – you should," Witless replied frankly. "Heir to the Van Dort fish empire – he'll be able to keep you in riches for the rest of your days."

"I don't like him because he's rich," Alice said, shaking her head. "I like him because he's nice." She yanked her arm free of Witless's grip. "And now, if you'll excuse me–"

"I wonder what he'd do if I told him about something you said at Rutledge."

It was like having ice water shot into her veins. Alice froze, then slowly turned to see Witless smirking at her. "You – you wouldn't," she whispered, hating herself for the frightened crack in her voice.

"Oh, but dearie – doesn't he deserve to know the whole truth about you?" Witless replied, voice as thick and syrupy as honey even as her eyes gleamed with malice.

Alice stared at the woman, feeling the walls closing in around her. Of course Witless would tell him what she'd said in the asylum. Witless would do anything for the money necessary to buy herself another bottle of Blue Ruin. But – but Victor wouldn't believe the old bag when she implied that Alice had been the one to kill her family, would he?

 _Maybe not – but do you want him to hear about what else happened at Rutledge?_ a voice inside her said. _About the nights you howled like a Boojum yourself? About how you attacked that nurse while being bathed? About what you did to those orderlies who were spoiling your rabbit? And what you did to your wrists after you'd put paid to them? Do you want him to hear all the worst horror stories of your time in captivity? Because Witless would tell him. And he'd never want to be your friend again. You'd lose him. Just like you lose everybody._

Alice's shoulders slumped in defeat. Wordlessly she reached into her pocket and pulled out her money, pressing it into Witless's waiting palm. Witless smiled at her, all warmth and pleasantness now that she'd gotten what she wanted. "Good girl. Always willing to help an old lady." She patted Alice's arm. "Your rich boy can buy his own things. He wouldn't give half a damn about a present from you, anyway."

Alice didn't respond – just pushed past her and started the walk back toward the Home. The distance seemed to have increased tenfold since she'd oh-so-cheerfully rushed out – was that really just a few minutes ago? It felt like weeks. She slipped a hand into her pocket, feeling the emptiness which was somehow heavier than the money she'd carried. _"Habitually late as always,"_ the Jabberwock whispered in her ear. _"If you'd bothered to come up with an idea earlier, perhaps you might have actually succeeded in your plan. But now you'll have to face him empty-handed. How long before you learn that you can never run from your guilt?"_

"Shove off," Alice mumbled. "You're nothing but a figment of my imagination."

" _And who was it that said my insults were second-rate? Perhaps I am, but Victor certainly isn't. Oh, the disappointed look he'll have when you'll have to confess you were too busy daydreaming to get him something in time. . . ."_

"It hasn't happened yet, you stupid dragon," she snapped, though there was no heart behind her words. "Can't you wait until tomorrow to make me even more miserable?"

" _If you insist,"_ the Jabberwock purred, moving back. _"Unlike you, I know how to make the best use of my time. Goodbye – for now."_ He took to the air and flew off, the smoke from his furnace heart pouring over her and forming her own personal storm cloud of self-pity as she dragged herself onwards.

Eventually, she made it back to Houndsditch. Victor was in the front foyer now, pouring over the few titles available to him in the shelves. He glanced up as she entered, then frowned. "Alice?" He moved toward her, one hand outstretched. "Are you all right?"

The concern in his eyes hurt more than the Queen's tentacles crushing the life from her body. "I don't want to talk about it," she said quietly, rushing past him before he could ask any more questions. _I don't want to have to tell you that you're not getting a birthday present all because of some old drunken bitch who loves nothing more than to blackmail me at every opportunity._

She escaped into her room, closing the door hard behind her so Victor wouldn't get any ideas about following. Then she flopped down onto her bed, squeezing her eyes closed so she wouldn't cry. It was a stupid thing to cry about. All it was was a birthday present! Victor would probably be getting something elaborate and showy from his parents. He wouldn't even notice her lack of a gift. And if he did, he'd forgive her, because he was a sweet-hearted boy who didn't care much about material possessions beyond his sketchbook. She shouldn't give another thought to the matter.

Except. . .she'd been looking forward to this. Looking forward to the moment where she could get him alone and present her gift. His eyes would have widened in surprise, and then he'd have opened it to see the paints, and that shy little smile would have lit up his face. . .and he would have thanked her sincerely and gratefully, and the rest of the day would have been happy and warm no matter the weather outside. . . . She opened her eyes to glower at the ceiling. _Why did Witless have to show up today of all days? All I wanted was to see him smile again. . . . Damn it, is there nothing else I can give him?_

As if they felt she needed yet another dose of guilt over this mess, her eyes slid down to stare at the collection of pictures Victor had given her. They'd fallen into a routine of sorts – whenever he was around during one of her story times, he drew something and presented it to her afterward. His skill with a pen was unmistakable – somehow, he always seemed able to translate her over-the-top descriptions into ink and paper. Her gaze traveled over the sketches ringing her bed. On the far left, an angry fanged mushroom flared its cap; closer to the corner, a Mechanical Ladybug lugged its explosive payload through a foggy sky, over her pillow, her London self continued her ceaseless battle against the army ant –

And right next to that. . . .

Alice pulled herself up, settling on her knees in front of the picture. It was the newest of the lot, drawn just four days ago to illustrate her latest tale about her trip through the Tower of Steam in the heart of Queensland's twisty hedge maze. Captured in ink, her Wonderland self floated above one of the innumerable steam vents in the tower, skirts billowed, long hair drifting in the breeze, the Cards clutched in her hand. The imaginary Alice smirked out at reality, face confident and dangerous despite the lurking threat of Boojums. But it wasn't her other self's expression that drew Alice's eye. Before completing the drawing, Victor had added a few wisps of steam trailing up behind her. And the way he'd drawn them, curling out in gentle ripples and arcs, it looked like –

Well, it looked like she had wings.

She ran her fingers over the lines, remembering how pink Victor's cheeks had turned as he'd told her, "It – it just seemed right. . .I hope it doesn't look silly to you." She'd replied that it didn't, not at all, he'd done a wonderful job as always, but that hadn't expressed her real feelings. Truth be told, she'd been stunned – and more than a little touched. He'd made her look like an angel.

He'd made _her_ , of all people, look like an angel.

The tears were pricking at the corners of her eyes again. She turned away, blinking them back. That was the real reason she'd wanted to get him a birthday present – she'd wanted to thank him. Everyone else saw her as nothing more than a violent lunatic who screamed at invisible monsters and had probably killed her family – and he saw her as an angel. He was truly someone special, and now. . .she wrapped her arms around herself, feeling the guilt churning and cooking in her belly. Why had she let Witless bully her like that? She simply _couldn't_ face him empty-handed. . . .

" _But you must,"_ the Jabberwock said with wicked glee. _"Selfish, misbegotten–"_

" _Oh, do stop going on in that manner. You're just jealous you never got a portrait done by either of them."_

Startled, Alice jerked her head up to stare into the grin of the Cheshire Cat. The tattooed blue feline was resting a paw on the black journal that served as her diary, currently lying on her pillow. She could see a copy of his eternal smile peeking out from between the pages. _"Not that I think Victor would appreciate the face of an overly-talkative buck-toothed lizard staring out at him from his wall,"_ he added, his lips curling over his teeth in a smirk.

Alice quickly shoved both cat and dragon to the back of her mind before a brawl could break out. Picking up her journal, she extracted the picture of the Cat, along with the others that she'd drawn in the asylum. The White Rabbit, Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum, Hatter's asylum "funhouse," the Fungiferous Forest. . .Dr. Wilson had told her, upon surrendering them, that he thought she might have a future as an illustrator if she needed extra work. _If only – every scrap of talent I possessed vanished as soon as I entered Houndsditch,_ she thought bitterly. _What good would it do, drawing Victor a picture now?_

 _. . .Then again – what_ harm _would it do?_

She frowned thoughtfully. That was a point. Perhaps her artistic skills weren't as good as his anymore, but – trying wouldn't hurt, would it? And she didn't have anything else to offer him on such short notice. . . . Scouring her room turned up a pencil and some blank paper, which she rested on a nearby stool. Now, what did she want to draw? A portrait of Victor? Something from her Wonderland? Or something from his Land of the Dead?

A memory swam before her eyes – Victor telling the children about his duet with Emily in the Ball & Socket pub. She'd been called away from the story by Dr. Bumby before getting to hear it all, but she was sure she remembered enough of his description to do a decent sketch. She set to work, replaying Victor's story over in her mind. _"I saw her from the stairs, slumped in front of the coffin piano. . .it was an oddly cheery instrument for such a macabre base – I think the pink lining helped with that. . .the keys were a bit crooked, but the tones it produced! I would bet Bonejangles made sure it was kept in top condition. . . ."_

A few minutes of extremely careful sketching later, she'd managed to produce – an unformed scribble that no person on earth would ever guess was either a coffin or a piano. Frustrated, Alice gritted her teeth and violently rubbed out the picture. "Argh! Damn it! Why must I draw like a six-year-old?! I _know_ I can do better!"

" _Knowing and doing are two different things."_

"I'm aware of that, you blasted Cat! How about you give me some useful advice?" Alice snapped.

" _About drawing?"_ Cheshire said, and chuckled. _"Please, Alice, when have you ever seen a cat hold a pencil? You need to ask a different group entirely about that."_

Childish laughter suddenly echoed through the room. Looking up, Alice saw a young girl, about the same age as Elsie, standing by her door. Her ginger hair was tangled and wild, and her face was more scars and stitches than flesh. She waved at Alice. _"Time to play with us?"_

Alice looked from her to the paper, then back. The girl giggled and shook a finger. _"Uh-uh! Only members of the fort are allowed! And you're not loud enough."_

This little brat was holding her art skills hostage? Alice was tempted to shout for a moment, but stopped herself. The last thing she needed was to bring Victor – or worse, Dr. Bumby – running. "I can't come play – I'm trying to get _well_ ," she whispered, leaning close to the child. "The Queen is dead, and the Hatter forcibly reformed. You should be able to find plenty of playmates in Wonderland." She bit her lip. "But I need those skills you hold. It's – it's _important_."

The girl frowned curiously. Emboldened, Alice continued. "My best friend's birthday is tomorrow, and I've been robbed of the money I need to buy him a present." She held up the paper. "This drawing – this is all I have to give him. And without you surrendering what you took, it's not going to look like much." She reached out and took the little girl's hand. "Victor – he's the only friend I've had in ages. I need to do this for him." She pressed her lips together. " _Please_."

There was a charged silence. Then the girl nodded, and a strange tingling filled Alice's fingers. _"Okay, okay – but just for today,"_ the child said, pulling free and putting her hands on her hips. _"You want it for good, come visit us at our fort."_

And with that, she was gone. Alice smiled at the spot where she had stood. "Thank you," she whispered, flexing her hands.

Then she grabbed her pencil and set back to work.


	12. Better Than A Pet

June 9th, 1875

Whitechapel, London's East End, England

10:39 A.M.

_This is easily the nicest birthday gift I could get today._

Victor closed his eyes and tilted his head up, letting the music wash over him. The Houndsditch Home For Wayward Youth was quiet and peaceful for the moment, a sharp contrast to its usual low level of chaotic grumbling. Dr. Bumby was out, having taken a few of the children away on what he'd called a "therapeutic trip." According to the doctor, they wouldn't be back until late that afternoon. The rest of the Home's younger residents were playing in the concrete "yard" that adjoined the grounds, enjoying the pleasures of early summer and completely ignoring the fact that it was Victor's birthday – or that Victor existed at all, really.

Victor was happy to be ignored. He hadn't expected the children to do anything for his birthday, beyond peppering him with jokes and smart remarks about his becoming "ancient." He much preferred the chance to snatch a few minutes at the piano. He needed his music today. He'd always believed birthdays were supposed to be happy occasions, but this one. . . .

Part of him still couldn't really believe it. Twenty years old. It sounded so – adult. He didn't feel adult. Not any more than he had when he was nineteen and facing down a crazed swordsman surrounded by living corpses, anyway. _And to think – I might have been married and celebrating my birthday with my wife if everything had gone according to plan,_ he thought, melancholy. _I wonder if I would have felt like an adult in that case. Maybe if Mother had been breathing down my neck about grandchildren. . . ._

He shook his head. He didn't want to dwell on such things today. He'd spent the past fortnight allowing thoughts like those to drag him down. And making a complete arse of himself in front of his one friend in the process. He winced as he remembered his inadvertent whinge to Alice. What right did he have to complain about losing the chance at a normal life after all that had happened to her? How could he have been so thoughtless? At least she'd been gracious enough to listen to him babble on, and to accept his apologies afterward. And to not make a sarcastic comment, though he wouldn't have blamed her if she had. He probably would have even laughed. _Her sense of humor is a bit wicked, but I've never met anyone who has her way with words,_ he thought with a smile. _Or her way with hugs. . .though I wish I'd found out about that in a more_ pleasant _way. . . ._

A shiver went down his spine. Two weeks, and the memory of that horrific session was still fresh in his mind. He suspected he wouldn't forget it for as long as he lived. The darkness all around him, clinging to him, crushing him in its grip. . .the voices berating him, calling him names, telling him what a useless burden he was. . .and Bumby's voice just adding to the crowd, snapping that he was stupid for letting the dark terrify him like this, that he needed to be stronger, that if he'd just listen and endure this could all go away. . . .

His eyes snapped open as the music faltered. _No,_ he told himself, staring at his trembling hands. _Don't think about that. Think about what happened afterward. Think about Alice, who everyone says hates to be touched, willingly_ hugging _you._ _Think about how nice her arms were around you._

_Think about the fact that there's someone here who truly cares about you._

The shaking eased as the rest of it came rushing back. Gasping for air outside of Bumby's office, chest so tight he couldn't breathe, unable to think about anything but the endless, suffocating dark. . .and then, suddenly, feeling her warm body against his, anchoring him, pulling him back toward the light. . . . What would he have done had she not been there? _Well, she did say I looked like I was about to pass out,_ Victor thought, picking up the pieces of his shattered melody and putting them back together. _Maybe Dr. Bumby would have found me unconscious on the floor when he next left his office. Hopefully it would have taught him a lesson about what is and isn't appropriate for therapy._ He rolled his eyes. _On the other hand, Alice told me straight out he doesn't think any way but his has any merit, so. . .honestly, I think sometimes_ she _should be the psychiatrist, not him. I'm much more comfortable talking to her._

And that was a shocker in itself, honestly. He'd never thought he'd be able to say he was comfortable talking to anyone. Even with Victoria and Emily, he'd stumbled over his words, agonized about what was coming out of his mouth. With Alice, he could just – talk. She didn't judge him for his love of butterflies, or accuse him of being unmanly because he didn't enjoy hunting. She understood what it was like to be an outcast, shoved towards the fringes of society. (She understood it much better than he did, of course. . . .) She understood his need to be alone sometimes, to retreat from a world that saw him as a problem, a mistake. She understood his desire to express himself in ways that didn't involve words. And while she did enjoy making him flustered, he had to say that he rather enjoyed shocking her in return. The way her eyes went wide whenever he revealed he wasn't quite as innocent as he first appeared. . .he chuckled just thinking about it. There was a connection there that he'd never had with anyone else. Yes, he still despised the fact that he was forced to be here, treated like some sort of broken toy instead of a person, but – well, if that was the price to pay for having a friend like Alice. . . .

Someone knocked on the wall behind him. "Victor?"

 _Speak of the devil – no, wait, that sounds rude even in my head._ Victor stopped playing and looked up. Alice was standing in the hall doorway, hands held behind her back. "Hello," he greeted her, turning toward her with a smile. "I thought you were outside with the children."

Alice shook her head. "I was finishing up something in my room," she said, shifting from foot to foot. "I'm sorry to interrupt; I know how important your piano time is to you. . . ."

"It's all right," Victor said, frowning. Alice was fidgeting quite a lot, glancing left and right like she expected something to jump out at her. That was usually a sign that the invisible chorus of voices that plagued her steps was being louder than usual. Oh dear – had whatever had upset her so badly yesterday returned? She'd _seemed_ better over supper last night, but she hadn't given him much of a chance to speak with her, rushing off right after the meal. . . . "Speaking of which, are _you_ all right?"

Alice's lips twitched up nervously as she approached him. "I think so. Someone's trying to tell me I'm not, but I think you can quiet him." She took her hands out from behind her back and presented him with a sheet of paper. "Happy birthday, Victor."

Victor stared at the paper, surprised. She'd gotten him a present? Granted, she'd told him she would over a month ago, but somehow he'd convinced himself she wouldn't follow through. A little knot of guilt formed in his stomach. _Some friend you are, doubting her like that._ "Thank you," he said, taking the gift and looking at it properly.

His jaw dropped. What she'd given him was a picture – of the Ball & Socket. Specifically, she'd drawn him the little alcove near the back that contained the coffin piano. The sketch wasn't quite true to life – the stairs were a bit crooked, and she'd added a window that, in reality, would have looked in on the kitchen, but it was remarkably close for someone who hadn't actually seen it in person. But. . . . "I thought you said you couldn't draw?" he blurted, then turned pink. "Er, n-not that it's any of my business–"

"I can't draw _now_ ," Alice explained, grinning at his expression. "Back in Rutledge, I did some sketches of Wonderland that quite impressed Dr. Wilson. He even suggested that I make a living doing illustrations. But as soon as I came here, my skills suddenly dropped until – well, until Charlie and Elsie could outdraw me. Apparently the Insane Children who populate Wonderland find it necessary to hold my talents hostage until I pay them a visit. Fortunately, their leader was willing to surrender them for a day after I begged." She bit her lip, rocking back and forth on her heels. "Do you like it? I tried to follow your description as closely as possible. . . ."

Goodness, it was weird to see her this nervous. Like looking in some sort of twisted funhouse mirror. Victor gave her a warm smile. "It's fantastic, Alice," he assured her. "Thank you very much." He ran his fingers over the pencil sketch, being careful not to smudge it. "I have some very fond memories of that piano."

"I know," Alice nodded, her face filled with a mixture of pleasure and relief. "I remembered you saying something about a duet with Emily."

"Yes – you didn't hear that whole story, did you?" Victor said, looking up at her. "Dr. Bumby called you away just as I was getting to the actual duet."

"Radcliffe was bothering him about me, so he had to bother me about Radcliffe," Alice said, rolling her eyes. "At least I heard enough to give you a decent drawing." She tilted her head, regarding him curiously. "I'm surprised you played a duet with anyone, though. You're always so private about your music."

"Well, this was special circumstances," Victor explained, turning back to the picture. Memory filled in color and depth, and a lone blue figure sitting at the keyboard. "I was trying to apologize about lying to her, about going to Victoria for help, and the words simply weren't coming out right. She wouldn't listen to me at all. She just – sat there, playing the saddest tune I've ever heard. So, out of desperation, I started playing with her. Reached out to her from the bottom of my heart through the music."

"Did it work?"

"Fortunately for me," Victor nodded, smiling as the scene replayed itself in his mind. "At first she was determined to be angry – every time I started playing, she'd take her hands away. But then – I guess my persistence won her over. Or annoyed her sufficiently to try and show me up," he added with a chuckle. "All I know is that we ended up making some beautiful music together. And she – she had such _enthusiasm_. To the point where, near the end, her hand actually popped off in her excitement and continued playing by itself. I'd never met anyone like that before – anyone who seemed to love the piano as much as I did. I think that's the moment when I realized I really did love her too. Or, well, had a very strong case of like," he amended, smirking at his friend.

"Very, very strong case," Alice nodded, giggling. "Seems like Emily won the day when it came to music."

"She did, yes – though I _did_ have a near-immediate desire to teach Victoria how to play," Victor said, glancing at the piano beside him. "I thought, if I'm going to share my life with this nice young lady, I want to share my greatest passion with her too. I imagined our lessons together a lot when thinking about what I hoped would be." He sighed, dropping his gaze to the floor. "Of course, that'll never happen now. . . ."

Alice laid a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry for you," she said, pure sympathy in her voice. With an amused huff, she added, "I must be a great disappointment after them."

Victor's head snapped up. Alice was smiling at him, obviously trying to make light of what she'd just said – but that was genuine sadness in her eyes. That would not stand. "You're not," he said firmly, setting the picture aside to take her hand. "Not at all. Alice, I – I don't know where I'd be if you weren't here with me."

"Still in Houndsditch, I'd imagine. Unless you think my absence would have made your parents send you somewhere else?"

"You know what I mean," Victor said, shaking his head. "Life here at the Home would be intolerable if it weren't for you." He squeezed her hand. "You are the best friend I've had since Scraps died."

There were those wide eyes he usually found so amusing. She stared at him for a moment, apparently struck dumb. Then a genuine smile spread across her face. "Good to know I rank up there with your old dog," she teased, but he could hear in her voice she was truly touched. "I imagine it's tough to come anywhere near Scraps in your heart."

"Well, I doubt I come anywhere close to your Dinah," Victor joked back, patting her hand.

"Not in catching mice, that's for certain," Alice replied, making them both laugh. More sincerely, she added, "But in companionship, yes. You're the greatest friend I've had in a long, long while, Victor. I – I want to say I'm glad you came here, but that just sounds cruel."

Victor bit back another laugh. "It's all right. I know what you mean. Settle on 'I'm very glad to have met you?'"

"It's a deal," Alice said, shaking hands with him.

Victor nodded. "A deal," he agreed. _She really does have a beautiful smile,_ he thought. _And the way her eyes light up when she's in a good mood. . .I wish she could be happy more often. I wish both of us could be._

Alice nodded back, then pulled away. "Well, I'm sure you want to be left alone with your music," she said, turning to go. "You never know when those brats outside will intrude, and I don't want to keep you from it."

Victor looked at her, then back at the drawing now resting on the keyboard. He picked it up and stared at it, tracing the lines with his eyes. For a moment, he again saw the pink cushioning, the yellowed keys, the dark-haired figure mournfully tapping away. . . . "Wait," he called.

Alice stopped in the doorway, looking at him over her shoulder. Victor smiled at her, just a pinch nervous. "Would – would you like to hear something I've been working on?"

Alice blinked a few times, brown wrinkling in confusion. "You want me to stay?" she said, turning around slowly.

"If you'd like to," he replied, biting his lower lip. She'd given him one of his favorite memories in picture form – the least he could do was let her stay, rather than forcing her to retreat to her room. In fact, he rather _wanted_ her to hear his music. Deep inside, he realized that she'd understand. That it was safe for him to share this part of himself with her. She was his best friend – if he couldn't share this with her, who could he share it with? _Besides – perhaps now I'll finally get an answer to the question of how I compare with Elizabeth Liddell._

Alice eyed him for a moment, a faintly suspicious look on her face. Then the smile came back. "Well then – I'd be honored to hear what you're composing," she said, coming to stand by the piano.

Victor smiled back at her, then turned back to the keys, placing the picture in the music stand to keep it safe and out of the way. _Correction,_ he thought, feeling his heart swell as he looked at it. This _is the nicest birthday gift I could get today._ He stretched out his fingers and grinned. "I think you'll enjoy this – it's a rather light melody. . . ."


	13. A Dreadful Letter

June 17th, 1875

Whitechapel, London's East End, England

3:32 P.M.

"Victor?"

Victor looked up from his sketchbook, pen hovering over the page. Alice held out the envelope she'd just gotten from the mailman. "Letter for you."

"Oh – thank you," Victor said, sticking his pen back in the inkwell. Alice watched as he opened the letter, extracting several banknotes in the process. A tiny twinge of jealousy went through her. _He doesn't have to do a single thing to earn that beyond exist,_ she thought with a frown. _Why can't I get an allowance? The few shillings I get from Dr. Bumby wouldn't cover the rent on a flat for more than a week, and every time I save up a couple of pounds, Witless appears and takes them away. Damn Radcliffe and his insistence on "looking after" my inheritance! Bastard's probably spent the lot on Oriental artifacts and is too embarrassed to tell me. Or too afraid I'll find a better use for those supposedly "ornamental" katanas. . . ._

She lingered in the doorway as Victor skimmed through the letter, vaguely curious as to its contents. "Any interesting news from home?"

"Not really," Victor replied, shaking his head. "There's some belated birthday greetings. . .Father telling me about the latest deal he's made to expand the cannery's operations. . .Mother writing about wrangling an invitation to some important party. . .and – oh no!"

Alice, who'd just been about to make her goodbyes, froze halfway out the door, instantly concerned. "What? What's happened?" she demanded, whipping back around.

"It's my–"

Victor stopped abruptly, his upset expression changing to an embarrassed one. "Ah, n-nothing," he said, blushing and looking away. "Something silly, really. . .hardly worth my getting upset about. . . ."

Alice folded her arms and hit him with a steely look. "You said the same thing about that dream of yours, and I didn't think it was silly in the slightest, did I?" she reminded him. "Let me be the judge of whether or not you're getting worked up over nothing. Come on, out with it."

Victor looked back at her, cheeks still tinged with pink. "It really is silly this time," he insisted. "The maids were cleaning my room, and they stumbled upon my–" he drummed his fingers against each other "– my collection of penny dreadfuls."

Alice blinked. "Penny dreadfuls?" Okay, maybe he had a point. That did seem a silly thing to get worked up over. "Never took you as one for the dreadfuls – then again, I never took you as one to sneak into a lady's bedroom, and that's a far worse crime against propriety. What's so horrible about the maids finding them?"

Victor sighed and turned back to his letter. "'How could you, Victor?'" he read, mimicking his mother's voice. "'Don't you know only the worst of the lower classes read such garbage? Do you think you're a common laborer's son? Just because your father started out as a mere fish merchant does not give you the right to act as if we're nothing more than tradesmen! I'm surprised you haven't turned into a thief or a full-on rake. It was that one about vampires that got you started down the wrong path, wasn't it? Filled your head with those ludicrous ideas about corpses coming to life and being marriageable material. You're going to give me a heart attack with such behavior, Victor Fitzwilliam Van Dort! You've already brought enough shame on this family. Why must you always disappoint us so?'"

Oh. That's what was so horrible. Alice shook her head as he stopped. "Victor, your mother – I don't even have the words. She's reduced me to incoherence."

"She does that to a lot of people," Victor mumbled, head bowed.

"I'm not surprised," Alice muttered, disgusted. How could anyone go on like that to their own child over something as inconsequential as penny dreadfuls? "Excuse me for being blunt, but sometimes I wonder if she cares more about status than she does about you!"

". . .I wonder that a lot myself."

Alice froze, the next bit of her rant dying on her lips. "She's always on about how I'm disappointing her, or how I've made us look bad in front of so-and-so," Victor continued, staring down at the floor. "You should have seen how furious she was when the Everglots broke my engagement to Victoria. Apparently being related to grand dukes sometime in the past made them the cream of the social crop – never mind that the only reason I even got a chance at Victoria was because they'd lost all their money. And that was only the latest in a long line of speeches about – about how I'm a c-complete failure because I'm not the perfect, charming, society-conscious son she wanted." He closed his eyes tight, as if fighting off a sudden bout of tears. "Sometimes I think the real reason I'm here is because they wanted to get r-rid of me. They don't actually care about 'curing' me, they just want me somewhere where I can't cause them any more trouble. Maybe dumping me on Dr. Bumby is less scandalous than disowning me." He snorted humorlessly. "Or maybe they're hoping that, by the time he's done with me, my entire personality will be rewritten. Mother more or less asked the doctor to do just that during our first interview."

Alice gaped at Victor, well and truly struck dumb. Her mind could barely process what he'd just confessed. His parents considered him a failure? Didn't want him? But – but even the children here had memories of at least _one_ good parent. Charlie spoke fondly of his father, who'd lost his life after saving his son from the drunken lout who'd birthed him, and Abigail still cried out in the night for her lost mummy and daddy sometimes. Her own Mama and Papa had told her regularly how much they loved her, and how happy they were to have her in their lives – their miracle child, they'd called her. Her girlhood had been filled with hugs and story times and whispered words of comfort. To hear Victor talking about a childhood that was nothing but recrimination and rejection and being left in fields for a hour because his mother was too dim to realize her only child was missing. . . . The list of people that Alice loathed was fairly long, but she was pretty sure she could fit "William and Nell Van Dort" on there. They deserved one of the top spots after this stunt. She shifted from foot to foot, trying to lessen the uncomfortable weight that had settled in her chest. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean to–"

"No, no, I'm sorry," Victor said, pressing his fingers against his forehead. "I shouldn't have said all that. It's partly my own fault – I let them push me around. After all this time, it just became easier to let them make all the decisions. I should have done what some of my peers did and left home when I turned eighteen."

"Would they have let you?" Alice asked.

". . .No," Victor admitted, sighing. "I told you my first day here that I wanted to go to university. Father nixed those plans the moment I brought them up. He said that it was a waste of money and that I'd learn everything I need to know about running the business under him. And Mother. . .oh, if I'd refused that arranged marriage. . .it would have been worse than the day she screamed at me in full view of everyone in the square." He glared at the money now resting on the nightstand. "And now I'm stuck here because I'm dependent on whatever allowance they give me! Which is always just enough to cover whatever expenses I may have and nothing else. I don't suppose Dr. Bumby wouldn't like a second dogsbody to run errands?" he added, looking over at Alice with hopeful eyes.

"I don't think he'd take you on – he says he has enough trouble paying me some days," Alice said, shaking her head. "Not to mention he's technically not supposed to employ his patients. Although, on that note, have you ever thought about talking to him about any of this? Seems the sort of thing to tell a psychiatrist."

"Do you really think he'd listen?" Victor replied, leaning his head on his hand. "His job is forcing me to forget Emily, not listening to me complain about the people paying his salary."

That was a point. Alice sighed. "Well – if it makes you feel any better, I don't care how much of a fool you make of yourself in front of the upper classes. I like you."

"Good, because I've done it rather a lot," Victor said, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. "And I'll probably keep doing it. In front of everybody, not just the upper crust."

Argh, why couldn't she be better at this "comforting" business? "I meant that, no matter what your parents think of you, you're not a failure in my eyes," she tried again, putting a hand on his shoulder. "You're a wonderful, sweet young man who's turned out shockingly well-adjusted after everything they've put you through. And if they can't see that – if they're too caught up in 'important' parties and business deals – then maybe it's for the better that you're away from them." Her eyes hardened. "After you finally get out of here, you should go off on your own. Tell your father his cannery can sink to the bottom of the Thames for all you care."

"Alice, they'd kill me if I said anything like that," Victor protested. "Besides, where would I go? I don't have any marketable skills."

"So? You learn some. You were willing to run errands for Bumby not five minutes ago." She gave his shoulder a squeeze. "You're better than you give yourself credit for. And much, _much_ better than your parents give you credit for."

A hint of a smile finally appeared on Victor's lips. "Thank you, Alice. I really needed that." With a sigh, he turned back to the letter. "At least I won't be able to disappoint them by reading the dreadfuls anymore. Mother says they're going to burn the lot. I spent _years_ building up that collection. . . ."

"A terrible waste," Alice agreed, then smirked. "However – I know a store just a couple of streets away that sells penny dreadfuls. Unless you're already aware?"

Victor blinked a few times. "No, I – I'd sort of given them up. I've been too distracted with everything else here, and– " He glanced up at her. "Well, they're really meant for young boys, aren't they?"

"Perhaps, but I still enjoy reading children's literature," Alice replied with a shrug. "And I've seen grown men leafing through them on the street." She nudged her friend. "And how much do you think it would gall your mother to know that she'd sent you to the perfect spot to rebuild that collection of yours?"

Victor arched an eyebrow at her, frowning. "Are you suggesting I go buy some dreadfuls purely out of spite?"

"Yes," Alice admitted with an easy grin. "You're allowed. You're an adult."

A rebellious smile spread over Victor's face. "That's right, I am," he agreed, standing. "What could they do to me here if they found out? Besides, if I'm already in trouble. . ."

"That's the spirit," Alice grinned. "We'll make a scoundrel out of you yet." She grabbed his hand. "Come on, I've got nothing better to do. How did you get introduced to the dreadfuls in the first place, though?"

"Mayhew's nephew Tim," Victor said, setting aside the letter and slipping the money into his pocket. "I caught him by the stables with one a few years ago and asked to read it. By the end of the chapter, I was practically begging him to tell me where I could buy my own." He smiled in his self-deprecating way. "I know they're nothing but trash, but – I can't help myself. They tended to be a lot more interesting than the history books and sport magazines my mother insisted I read."

"So long as someone who can spell is writing," Alice nodded, pulling him along. "Oh, and you have a decent illustrator. I've always believed in books with pictures."

"I've noticed," Victor chuckled. "You've read some yourself, hmm? Do you have a favorite?"

"Not really," Alice said. "I just page through whatever's available. Do you?"

"I'm rather fond of 'Varney the Vampire.' The one Mother accused of planting 'ludicrous ideas' in my head," Victor told her. "Most of it's ridiculous, like that part with him hurling himself into a volcano, but every so often there's a moment that sends a real chill up my spine. I liked 'The String of Pearls' as well – though that had a rather – n-nauseating ending," he added, shuddering.

"Oh, yes, I remember picking up a print of that," Alice said, making a face. "Turned me off meat pies for a fortnight. Not that I can usually afford those anyway, and what _actually_ goes into them is probably worse than human flesh. . . ."

"Don't tell me," Victor pleaded, grimacing. "I am perfectly happy in my ignorance."

"This from someone who once had nose cake."

"I didn't actually _eat_ any of that, you know. I'm not sure I could have even if I were dead. I don't know how they manage to eat each other's body parts. Wouldn't it get awkward?"

"Search me. I've never met a dead person." Alice gave him another playful nudge. "Lovett and Todd should have set up their pie shop Downstairs. They would have never been lacking for customers even after the news was broken about their favored meat."

"I guess not – the Dead are welcome to them," Victor said, chuckling. "So, where is this store that sells such 'horrific publications,' as my mother would say?"

"Just follow me," Alice said, leading him through the front foyer. "Although I have one more question for you before we go."

"Oh?"

Alice looked back at him with mischievous eyes. "Fitzwilliam?"

Victor groaned. "It's 'aristocratic,'" he said, putting on his mother's voice again. "Mother actually wanted my middle name to be Fitzgerald, but in Father's family, it's tradition to give a son his father's name as the middle. 'Fitzwilliam' was Mother's idea of a compromise."

"Ahhh. And the fact that one of literature's favorite leading men would rather go by his last name even with his beloved than let anyone use his first didn't clue her in that it was a bit embarrassing?"

"Alice, this is the same woman who's talked about me wetting my combinations to total strangers."

"And she accuses _you_ of being the embarrassment? Oh, but I shouldn't make such fun of her naming abilities – my own middle name is Pleasance," she confessed in a whisper. "Mama said it was in honor of how pleasant my day of birth was. How she noticed through being in labor with me. . . ."

Victor laughed. "Well, it's still better than Fitzwilliam," he said. "May we go now?"

"Yes, let's go," Alice said, opening the door. _And_ _Mr. and Mrs. Van Dort, you and your high society leanings can go straight to Hell,_ she added as they proceeded down the steps. _I might just tell you that in person if I ever have the displeasure of seeing you again. How anyone could act as if their own child was just a commodity. . . ._

Well, she couldn't do anything about the elder Van Dorts at the moment, so there was no use worrying about it. Right now, she had some trash to buy and enjoy with her friend. _Fingers crossed we find some Varney._


	14. Icy Reception On A Very Hot Day

July 9th, 1875

Whitechapel, London's East End, England

11:03 A.M.

_I wonder if it's possible for a person to melt._

Victor stared up at the ceiling, sprawled out across his bed. He could barely believe how hot it was. He was certain it had never gotten this warm in Burtonsville. The heat just pressed in from all directions, leaving him unable to do anything but lie there and sweat. _I don't think I'll be able to drag myself up for lunch,_ he thought, raising a hand to wipe his face. _Then again, I'm not exactly dressed for it, so. . . ._ His fingers touched the spot where the knot of his tie would have rested if he hadn't stripped that, his jacket, and his waistcoat off in a desperate attempt to cool down. It felt weird to be without them, but with the alternative being slowly cooking alive. . . . _At least I don't have to go anywhere today. Oh, it's just so hot. . . ._

A figure appeared at the very edge of his vision. "Victor?"

Victor turned his head to see Alice standing in his doorway. She looked just as hot as he felt, sweaty hair hanging limp about her face and eyes dulled with heat-induced exhaustion. "Oh, hello Alice. How are you?"

"About ready to see if I can secure a position on one of those ships headed to the Arctic," Alice replied, dragging herself inside with a sigh. "Your room feels cooler than mine – mind if I stay for a bit?"

A voice in Victor's mind (it sounded rather like a combination of his mother and Lady Everglot) immediately started shrieking about how he wasn't properly dressed and how impolite it was to have a young lady in his room in his state. _Oh, do be quiet,_ he told it. _She saw me in my pajamas and dressing gown my first night here. At least I'm wearing day-clothes now. And how much ruder would it be for me to force a young lady to face the heat all alone out there? Besides, it's the East End – how long before you learn propriety barely means anything here?_ "Not at all," he told her. "Do forgive me not getting up, it's just. . . ."

"I totally understand. I don't want to be upright myself." She wandered over to the bed and sat down next to him. "I heard Dr. Bumby say it's the hottest day he can remember."

"I can believe it," Victor said, turning his gaze back to the ceiling. "I can't recall Burtonsville ever feeling like this, even at the height of summer."

"I think the trouble is all these factories that have sprung up in the city," Alice said, leaning back while hanging onto his bedpost. Victor drew his legs up in case she decided to just let go and flop over. "They belch all that smoke into the air, and I swear it helps trap the heat."

Victor nodded. "It sounds about right. You can't even breathe in weather like this." He'd tried – he'd gone out earlier in the week when it was just starting to get warm, and discovered that, thanks to the smog, every breath of air felt like he was taking a drag off Mayhew's pipe. He'd stumbled back to the Home coughing and gasping, and hadn't felt better until Alice had made him a cup of tea. "I miss the country," he added in a softer voice. "Especially on days like these."

"Me too," Alice agreed, joining him in staring at the ceiling. "I miss blue skies and being able to breathe."

"I miss flowers and butterflies," Victor said, picturing the fields and woods that lay just outside Burtonsville. He'd spent many happy hours in both as a child, running around with Scraps, chasing butterflies, or just lying in the grass enjoying the fresh air. Right now, he felt their loss keenly. London was a world of cobblestones and brick, with barely any greenery to be seen. Oh, he knew there were parks scattered throughout the city – he had a vague memory of visiting Hyde Park as a child on a family trip – but none of them seemed to be within a reasonable distance of the Home. And of course, without any plants to feed on, there weren't any butterflies, or any other insects he could study. It was downright depressing.

"Mmm," Alice murmured. "We weren't made to be city people, Victor. The trouble is, there's no escape."

"I know," Victor groaned. "Especially not today." Dear Lord, what did Alice mean by his room being better than hers? The heat was on him like a thick blanket, trying to smother him. How much worse could her room be? "Alice, please – describe something cool," he begged.

Alice was silent for a while. "I've told you about the Land of Fire and Brimstone, right?" she finally asked.

"Alice, I believe we're _living_ there at the moment."

She chuckled. "Well, would you believe that, right before I found myself on the edges of that world, I was exploring an ice cave?"

"Really?" Victor propped himself up on his elbows. "How'd you find that?"

"I was trying to escape those rotten Mechanical Ladybugs at the time," Alice said, scowling. "I thought I'd given them the slip by dropping into a tunnel underground, but the annoying little bastards dropped a marble in after me. I had to run for my life or get crushed."

Victor pictured the scene in his head. "That must have been terrifying," he said with a little shudder.

"One of the scariest moments of my life," Alice nodded. "I mean, most enemies I could slash to ribbons with my Vorpal Blade, or beat into unconsciousness with my Croquet Mallet, or even blow to bits with my Jackbomb. But how does one defeat a marble?" She shook her head. "I managed to outrun it until I came to a large frozen patch at the very bottom of the corkscrew twists and turns. There, thankfully for my continued existence, the marble smashed through the fragile ice and down a hole." She rolled her eyes. "Of course, not a minute afterwards, the ground beneath _my_ feet crumbled away too, and I found myself tumbling into a large cavern, with every surface frozen solid."

"Sounds wonderful," Victor said, smiling at the thought of finding himself surrounded by ice.

"It wasn't at the time – almost every step sent me careening wildly in a direction I didn't mean to go," Alice said, lying down in the space he'd provided. "But right now, I miss it more than anything. The deep blue walls all around me. . .the frosted, slippery ice covering the ground. . .the massive icicles both stretching down from the ceiling and growing up from the floor. . .the soft grey and white stripes of the little stone paths stretching across the chilled abyss, just as cold as everything else. . .my breath coming out in soft little puffs of white. . . ."

Victor closed his eyes, the words washing over him. Oh, he could almost _feel_ it. "You should write books, Alice," he said, pushing his hair back from his forehead. "You've got a way with words."

"Thank you, but I doubt anyone would want to publish my ramblings," Alice replied. "The only way I'd even have a chance is with a pen name." She sighed a little, then brightened. "Oh, and that's where I got the Ice Wand."

"The Ice Wand?" Victor repeated, immediately wanting to hear more.

"Mmm-hmm. Basically a large ice crystal with a handle. Shot my enemies with blasts of bitterly cold air until they froze in some painful-looking position. Very useful against Boojums, for some reason. They seemed to despise the cold."

"They're idiots," Victor mumbled, imagining what it might be like to stand in the Ice Wand's spray. A hissing, frigid wind on his face, leaving delicate patterns of frost clinging to his eyelashes and little icicles dangling from his nose. . .oh, it would be _bliss_.

"They are," Alice agreed. "Idiots who do nothing but try to burst your eardrums with terrible, high-pitched shrieks. Idiots who send you flying wildly through the air each time you try to jump." She laughed suddenly. "Idiots who make the most amusing faces when some tall, thin, pale young man decides to lecture them for ruining my birthday."

Victor laughed too, opening his eyes. "I sort of wish I could have seen that. I was just so upset that you couldn't enjoy getting your present. . . ."

"Honestly, the laugh was the best present I could have gotten." She paused. "No, I lie – the cake definitely was." They both giggled as she shifted her position. "I think that was the moment when I realized I just how much I liked you – that I actually _wanted_ to be your friend," she added. "I thought you were nice enough before, of course – amusing too. And that picture you drew me got me thinking about the possibilities. But – to do something _that_ kind for me. . . ."

"You deserved it," Victor said, smiling at her. "You'd already made my life here a lot better than I thought it would be. And I couldn't let your birthday pass uncelebrated."

"You've done much the same for me," Alice told him. "My days at Houndsditch were a lot more annoying before you came along." She smirked up at him. "And to think I was going to write you off as some sort of inconsiderate madman. . . ."

"You would have been allowed," Victor confessed, feeling a rush of embarrassment as he remembered his first day at the Home. "But I'm glad you forgave me."

"I'm glad too. I like hearing about your Land of the Dead." She frowned thoughtfully at the ceiling. "I wonder if it's just as hot down there today."

"I don't know," Victor admitted. "It does seem to be underground in some sense – that would have to make it at least a little cooler, right?"

"I suppose." Alice turned her head toward him. "Imagine it's cool down there? For the sake of my parents and Lizzie? Particularly Lizzie, she hated the heat. Drank gallons of lemonade every summer." She smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Do they have lemonade down there?"

"I would think so," Victor said, considering the idea. "They had alcohol, so I assume they would have lemonade as well. Though it might be made with rotten lemons, in their case."

Alice made a face. "Eugh. Well, so long as they don't add body parts to it. . . ."

Victor snorted, then rubbed his neck. Talking about cold drinks had made his throat feel drier than a desert. "Do _we_ have any of the ingredients for lemonade? I'm horribly thirsty now."

"I don't think so, and I'm _not_ risking going out and cooking in the middle of the street," Alice said as she sat back up. "But there must be something cool to drink somewhere in this house. Want to find out?"

"Yes," Victor nodded. "Let me just–" He reached for his tie and waistcoat, draped next to him on the bed.

"Don't bother," Alice said, catching his wrist. "I know for a fact the children and Bumby are hiding in their rooms as well. There's no one to see you. Unless I count. Which I must not, since you didn't immediately put those back on."

There was that voice again, snapping at him for being rude. Victor let out a frustrated sigh – he really was in no mood for endless recriminations from his own brain. "Shut _up_ ," he hissed under his breath.

Alice blinked. "I assume that wasn't directed at me. . .don't tell me Cheshire's somehow found a way to bother you too."

"No, no, it's not you, it's me," Victor assured her, waving his free hand. "My mind's giving me the usual lecture about being rude, and – you're really not offended by seeing me like this, are you?" he asked, feeling a tiny spike of nerves. One hand reached for a tie that wasn't there – he made do with gripping his shirt collar. "It's just – it's so hot, and you never – that is to say – you've already s-seen me–"

Alice poked him in the chest. "While seeing you all flustered is usually amusing, I'm worried you're going to overheat if you keep stammering. I'm not offended – in fact, I think you're the _only_ person, besides Dr. Bumby sometimes, that I see around here in a full suit. There's a reason your local nickname is 'swell,' you know. People in Whitechapel can't afford to dress like you do – and they don't care to either."

Victor nodded, the voice finally falling silent in the face of her assertions. "I keep telling myself things like that, but – sometimes, it doesn't stick," he confessed. "Blame growing up with a mother who would get on my back at the slightest misstep."

"Well, I suppose it's better that you keep your manners rather than lose them," Alice said with a small shrug. "But don't worry about them too much while you're here. I understand that's quite a lot like telling you not to breathe, but. . . ." She smirked and patted his shoulder. "Just remember – you once climbed into a young woman's bedroom in the middle of the night, declared your love for her, and then tried to kiss her. Not to mention ran around with your clothes in an awful state of disrepair. And raised the dead from their graves to terrify the living."

Victor laughed despite himself. "Yes, yes, I'm horribly impolite," he agreed, smiling. "Thank you for reminding me."

"What are friends for?" Alice said with a sly smile. "Now come on – we should at least be able to find some water in the kitchen."


	15. Private Eyes Are Watching You

July 18th, 1875

Whitechapel, London's East End, England

2:49 P.M.

"Oh! Oh for – stop running away!"

Victor stomped his foot, trying to capture the quill he'd just dropped as it scooted around his chair. Unfortunately, all his efforts seemed to be doing was creating little breezes that propelled the pen even farther away from him. It was quite irritating, to say the least. "Get _back_ here!" he snapped, attempting to snag the very tip of the feather with his toe.

The quill scuttled away as if carried by a few of Paul's cockroaches, slipping to the farthest possible point under the table he'd taken over for drawing. Grumbling, Victor got down on his hands and knees. "Bloody pen," he mumbled, ducking his head under the surface and squinting. Ah yes, there it was – next to that wayward clump of dust. He leaned down a little more and extended his arm. "You wouldn't think something that is incapable of rolling would be able to–"

Someone was staring at him.

Victor froze, fingers just short of his prize. Someone was – this was more than just staring. He could feel the eyes upon him, intently burning a hole through – through the back of his trousers. Someone was taking a good, long, admiring look – at his _arse_. Puzzled (and a little unnerved), he grabbed the pen and extracted himself from under the table. "Um, h-hello," he started, getting to his feet. "Can I – Dr. Bumby??"

Dr. Bumby didn't respond immediately, looking through the young man at some distant world only he could see. Then he blinked rapidly a few times, shaking his head as his gaze refocused on Victor. "What – oh. My apologies, Victor – I was thinking of something else," he said, giving the young man a bland smile. "Something wrong?"

"I – sir?"

"What were you doing under the table?" Dr. Bumby clarified.

Feeling quite peculiar, Victor held up the wayward quill. "I, ah, l-lost my pen. . . ." He fought the urge to grab his tie, glancing left and right. "W-was there something you wanted?"

Just for a second, Victor thought he saw a hungry gleam in the doctor's eyes. Then it was gone, leaving him to wonder if it had ever existed. "No," Dr. Bumby said with another shake of his head. "I just saw you in that unusual position and wanted to know if there was any trouble. Carry on."

With that, he departed. Victor watched him go, turning his quill over and over in his fingers. _That was – I don't even know. The way he was looking at me, you'd swear – but he's the doctor! He couldn't have – would he? Maybe I imagined it. . .but it felt so real! I can't believe – would Dr. Bumby really have – But why? What am I missing?_ Trying to comprehend what had just happened, he started turning in circles, attempting to get a look at his rear.

He'd been doing that for about a minute without success when a voice suddenly said, "You know, you've always reminded me of a puppy dog, but I never expected to find you chasing your own tail."

"Alice!" Victor jerked his head up, a blush creeping over his cheeks. Well, at least she'd been the one to catch him in such a ridiculous position. Someone like Abigail or Ollie wouldn't have been as kind as to compare him to a puppy. And if Dr. Bumby had come back. . .oh, he wouldn't have relished trying to explain this to _him_.

Alice leaned against the side of the doorway, an amused smirk on her face. "Yes, that's my name. What _are_ you doing?"

"Um – I was trying to see–" Wait a minute – she'd be able to tell him, wouldn't she? It would be a bit awkward, but it was better than making himself sick with dizziness. He turned around and bent over slightly. "Alice, is there anything on the seat of my trousers?"

He felt her eyes scan his posterior. "No, nothing that I can see. Why? Did the children try to trick you into sitting in something?" she asked, voice darkening.

Victor shook his head, straightening. "No, it's nothing to do with them." He waved a hand at his sketchbook as he turned. "I was drawing, and I happened to drop my quill, and when I went to fetch it, I – I found Dr. Bumby – staring at me."

Alice arched an eyebrow. "Staring at your arse, you mean?"

Victor nodded, twisting his hands together. "It was – r-rather disconcerting," he murmured, looking away from her.

"I would imagine. . .but why would he be staring at your backside?"

"Don't ask me. He said he was just curious as to what I was doing, but. . . ." Victor grimaced, a weird, unpleasant crawly feeling going down his spine. "It felt like he was looking awfully hard at – the a-area in question."

"Well, you certainly don't have anything on your trousers to explain it," Alice said, shrugging. "You're sure you didn't imagine it?"

"I don't know. It _felt_ very real."

Alice smirked. "Yes, but things that aren't real can sometimes feel realer than real things. Take it from someone who knows." She suddenly frowned at a point past Victor. "Not the time to engage me in debate about what constitutes 'real,' Cat."

Victor couldn't help a smile. "He does so love complicating the issue, doesn't he?"

"Always. He lives for it." Alice shook her head. "But I suppose my talking to something invisible to everyone else does prove my point. What reason would Dr. Bumby have for staring at your rear? Nothing against said rear, mind, but really now."

Victor frowned, interlacing his fingers in front of him. Alice made a good argument. And he didn't really _want_ to believe Dr. Bumby had any sort of interest in his rear end. But. . . . "It's just – afterward, having to talk to him. . .I felt so – t-trapped, all of a sudden. And there was something about the look on his face. . . . He's done other odd things as well," he added, feeling an almost irrational need to give more evidence for his position. "Sometimes, after he wakes me from a session, I'll find him – leaning over me. Watching me rather intently."

"Oh, he does that to me too," Alice said carelessly, pushing a stray lock of hair out of her face. "Not all the time, but if a session's been particularly trying. . . . I'll agree that it's not a nice thing to open your eyes to, though. He's got a face like a melted wax doll, doesn't he?"

Victor hummed in agreement. "I've always been more put off by the stare," he said, unclasping his hands. "The way he looks at people sometimes as if he _owns_ them. I've seen something like it on my mother when she interacted with the servants, and I didn't like it any more then than I do now." He rubbed his face. "I understand he owns the house, and that we're his responsibility as his patients, but – I don't know. His behavior can be–"

"Creepy?" Alice filled in, and sighed. "Yes, I know. He can be arrogant, and pushy, and a bit _weird_ at times. I can't say I like him very much, even if he does give me a wage and a roof over my head. But we have to remember – for all his faults, he _is_ trying to help. He's said outright his goal is to make people like me and the children useful members of society again."

"By making you forget things?"

"Painful things. Things that are holding us back. His philosophy is that memories of all sorts have a useful life. Once their time is past, you need to push them out of your mind so they don't drag you down." She shrugged. "You've had enough sadness in your life, I'd wager – mostly thanks to those _wonderful_ parents of yours," she added with a roll of her eyes. "Wouldn't you prefer to remember just the happy times?"

Victor considered that for a long moment. Forgetting the afternoon spent stranded in that field, the morning Scraps had gotten torn to pieces before his eyes, a certain dark night in front of the bathroom mirror. . .it did have a certain appeal. But then piano music echoed through his head, and he remembered being handed a stem of winter jasmine and watching butterflies fill the night sky. Bittersweet memories, but – he'd rather cut off his hand (a possibility that sent his skin crawling) than give them up. "Even my happiest memories still have some sadness attached," he said quietly. "Isn't it the same with you?"

Alice chewed her lower lip. "I suppose," she admitted reluctantly, then sighed. "But honestly, after everything I've been through – if I have to sacrifice a few of the only-slightly-painful memories to have just the painless ones, that's all right by me."

Victor fussed with his tie knot. "It doesn't sound healthy to me," he muttered. "Giving up so much of your life and mind."

Alice's eyebrows lowered. "I don't think having years of nightmares thanks to hearing the screams of your family trapped inside your burning house is healthy either," she said coldly. "Or dealing with horrific hallucinations that can pop up at any moment and rip you away from the real world."

Victor winced and held up his hands in surrender. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean – you're entitled to deal with your pain however you wish," he said. "It's your head. I shouldn't say anything about it."

"Exactly," Alice agreed, poking him in the ribs. "Lest you forget, your 'trauma' involves a loving woman wanting to marry you despite her being dead, and you helping her remove her killer from this world and sending her off either to Heaven or to a carefree life as a flock – my apologies, _rabble_ – of butterflies."

Victor snorted. "You could have said flock."

"Would you not have corrected me?"

"I think it actually is an accepted term for a group of butterflies. I just prefer 'rabble' because it's more unique. And easier to remember than 'kaleidoscope.'"

"'Kaleidoscope' provides the better image," Alice shot back with a smile. "I think Emily would prefer that."

"Well, if you insist. . . ." Victor's smile dropped. "But I understand what you mean. What happened to me is something I wouldn't mind remembering for the rest of my days." He rolled his eyes. "In fact, it was most traumatic to the people who weren't even there when it happened."

"So I've gathered," Alice said, frowning. "Although, considering that. . .Victor, why didn't you ever just _lie_? I know you said before that you found it an affront to Emily's memory, but – is she really worth being forced to live in _Whitechapel_? I never had a choice about the matter, but you did. Wouldn't it have been easier to recant what you said before coming here?"

"Maybe," Victor admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. "But – it just feels so _wrong_ to me. And I was so angry about Pastor Galswells calling me damned and all the other villagers shunning me that I dug my heels in out of spite. Besides, I'm not very good at fibbing."

"You convinced Emily you were going to see your parents that one time," Alice pointed out.

"That's because I thought I _was_ ," Victor explained. "The only part I lied to her about was the _reason_ I thought we should see them – I was hoping to get their help in explaining to her my situation and why we couldn't be married." He grimaced. "Which was an awful plan, now that I think about it. If Mother reacted this badly to just _hearing_ about me being accidentally wed to a corpse, I can only imagine what she'd done if she'd actually _met_ my bride."

"I can't, and I'm glad I can't," Alice said, shaking her head. "But you could always lie now. Easier to tell a fib in a letter, I'm sure."

"Perhaps, but the first thing they'd do is write to Dr. Bumby–"

"And they'd never take your word over his," Alice finished, squinching up her eyes and nodding. "I didn't think of that."

"Exactly. And after all the sessions we've had together, I'm certain Dr. Bumby would be able to tell the difference between a false confession and a real one." Victor sighed. "No – the time to pretend has long past, I think. I've been stubborn about it this long – I can wait until they give in."

"Well, I can't say I'm upset over the chance to enjoy your company for a while longer," Alice said, rocking back and forth on her heels. "And I suppose it is admirable that you're willing to stick so closely to your convictions."

"Thank you." Victor watched her for a moment, wondering if he should put voice to the question that had been bothering him for a couple of weeks now. _Oh, just do it,_ he told himself. _It can't be any harder than going after Lord Barkis with a barbeque fork._ "Alice – why do you go along so easily with me talking about the Land of the Dead? I thought you more or less agreed with everyone else that it was little more than a hallucination." Unwillingly, hope rose up in his heart. Was it at all possible that she'd changed her mind? That, finally, he'd have someone around who believed him?

"Well, yes, I do," Alice started, dashing his hopes to the ground. Then she smiled. "But it's the sort of hallucination I wish I was saddled with. I'd rather be dancing with the undead than seeing the Jabberwock's shadow lurking around corners. Besides, it's so much fun I like playing along. It's just the sort of afterlife I'd like to go to. You could say I'm with Dr. Wilson – you may be a bit mad, but it's the kind of madness everyone should just learn to ignore."

"I see." It wasn't quite the answer he'd hoped for, but he'd take it all the same. Even so, he couldn't resist poking her arm. "Mark my words, Alice – one day, I'm going to find proof that it all happened. Proof not even my parents will be able to reject."

"I look forward to that day." Alice's expression suddenly turned serious. "And if you do – will you find a way to bring me Downstairs? I want to see my family again. Just one more time."

Victor nodded, putting his hand on her shoulder. "I promise."

Alice smiled up at him. "Thank you." Then her expression morphed back into her usual smirk. "You put up with way too much from me. 'Of course it's not true – but can you do me this favor if it is?'"

Victor chuckled, slipping his arm around her. "It's fine. It's what friends do for each other, isn't it?"

"I don't have much experience with friends, so I really couldn't say."

"Yes, well, neither do I. But – I think I know enough now to call you my best friend."

Alice stared up at him. "Best friend? Oh, Victor, you could do so much better than a madwoman."

"Could I? In case you haven't noticed, Alice, no one tolerates me the way you do."

"That's true," Alice agreed. "I almost forgot you're a madman yourself." She pressed her head against his shoulder. "I guess we'll just have to be mad together."

"Indeed," Victor agreed. His eyes strayed over to his sketchbook. "Would you like to see what I've been drawing?"

"Do I ever _not_ want to see?" Alice pulled away and started toward the table, then stopped and looked back. "Oh, and Victor?"

"Yes?"

"If you do catch Dr. Bumby apparently looking at you – the wrong way, let's say – again, I promise not to see anything should you decide to punch him in the nose."

Victor just caught himself from rubbing his arse. "Thanks," he whispered, then tried to smile. "Though, really, I'm sure I just imagined it. Nothing to worry about."

 _You're bad at fibbing, hmm?_ an internal voice scolded.

 _Oh hush,_ he shot back. _Besides, it's almost the truth. I still can't think of any reason why he'd want to look. I probably was overreacting. It's not something I want to give another thought to either way._

"Even so." Alice leaned over the book. "Now, what have you been up to in the world of art?"

Victor joined her, happy to turn the conversation to other things. "I was trying to draw one of Mother's favorite vases from memory. . . ."


	16. Of Beatings, Bunters, and Lord Barkis

July 29th, 1875

Whitechapel, London's East End, England

12:52 P.M.

"There _must_ be something green around here. The East End can't be completely devoid of grass."

"We haven't discovered any on our other walks through this wretched neighborhood," Alice said, shaking her head. "I don't hold out high hopes."

"Neither do I, but I don't want to stop hoping altogether either," Victor replied, lips set in a determined line.

"You're being shockingly optimistic for someone who's spent almost four months living in the East End."

Victor smirked. "Oh Alice – I'm being shockingly optimistic for me in general."

Alice laughed and nudged him. "You said it, not me."

Victor nudged her back, prompting another giggle from her. Well, even if they hadn't found any greenery, she was enjoying her walk with Victor nonetheless. She'd never counted wandering through Whitechapel and the surrounding neighborhoods as one of her favorite activities before, but having someone to talk to made all the difference. She hadn't realized just how much she'd been lacking in proper conversation until Victor came along. She felt like she could share anything with him – even stories from her childhood. She hated when others tried to drag those memories out of her, but Victor. . .Victor was different. He never pushed or pried, like the doctors she'd known. He just – listened. He laughed at the funny parts, comforted her during the sad ones, and came back with stories about his own boyhood. He _understood_ her. And being understood was an incredibly nice feeling. _I never could have guessed just how much I really wanted a friend._

They continued their way through the twisting streets of the East End, taking the slow route back to Houndsditch. Dr. Bumby had sent them (well, her – Victor had just offered to tag along) out to pick up a few small items, and had told them they could take their time about it: "I've got an important friend coming over, and I don't want to be disturbed." As neither of them cared about meeting said "important friend," they took advantage of the opportunity to go exploring and see if there was anything that could count as a plant in their particular half of the city. So far, all they'd found were some brave weeds, breaking through the cobblestones. And even those had been tinted brown from all the air pollution.

Still, the day hadn't been a total bust. They'd found everything they'd needed to get in record time – Alice suspected that the sight of a swell had spurred the shopkeepers into speedier service. They'd even had a moment to stop at a sweet shop, where Victor had insisted on buying a chocolate bar for them to split. Alice wasn't usually one for candy – her true love was always going to be pastry – but Victor could afford the brands worth eating. She could still taste the remains of her half on her tongue. _Even if the Jabberwock pops out before me now, snarling about how I murdered my family,_ she thought, glancing fondly over at her friend, _today has been a good day._

A sudden cry of pain cut through her thoughts. Victor jumped. "What the – did that sound like a woman to you?" he asked, looking around for the source of the noise.

"Probably a prostitute who's angered the wrong customer," Alice said, grimacing.

"Oh, I see." Victor glared in the general direction of the sound. "Have I mentioned lately I hate it here?"

"No, actually, you haven't."

"Really? I don't know what's wrong with me. My loathing for this city grows daily." There was another cry, making Victor wince. "Especially when I hear things like that. It's not right!"

"I thought you didn't even like the prostitutes," Alice said, eying him. _Uh-oh. He's in a mood._ And when Victor got in a mood, he tended to forget to think before he acted. "Given the way they keep throwing themselves at you, desperate for a glimpse of your wallet."

"I don't, but it's still–" His fists clenched briefly, then relaxed. "Someone ought to say something!"

"Who?" Alice started – then stopped as Victor rushed off, following the wails of pain. "Oh – Victor! Don't do anything stupid!" she yelled, running after him.

The source of the noise wasn't far away, and it was one that didn't surprise Alice at all. Jack Splatter, the most infamous of the local pimps, had one of his girls up against a wall, glaring at her as she cowered before him. "And next time you try to sneak something that's mine, you'll get worse!" he snapped, giving her a final slap.

Alice's stomach twisted as she watched the scene. She loathed Jack Splatter – he was nothing more than a leech in her eyes, a twisted waste of flesh who made his living sucking the lifeblood of others. If she ran the world, he'd be rotting in the deepest, darkest, dankest jail cell she could find. But she didn't run the world, and she had no way to take the bastard on – all her skills in combat were confined to Wonderland. Not to mention the vile cur seemed to have some sort of business relationship (at least, she _hoped_ it was merely business) with her old nanny, now the madam of the Mangled Mermaid. She didn't want Nanny to get upset with her if she riled the man – or worse, for the woman to suffer for her sins. She wanted nothing more than to turn around, walk away, and forget she'd ever heard anything.

Victor, however, seemed determined to make an idiot of himself. "Will you stop that?" he snapped, glaring at Jack's back. "Whatever she's done, it can't have been that horrible!"

Jack turned around, blinking. "What? Oh!" He pulled away from the woman, looking – slightly embarrassed? Alice arched an eyebrow. That wasn't what she had been expecting at all. "Didn't mean to do that in front of a customer," Jack continued, dusting off his hands. "But the bunter here was holding out on giving me my rightful share of the profits." He smiled at Victor and held out a hand. "Still, she's an athanasian wench, for the right price."

"Don't bother, Jack – he never samples the goods," the whore said, rubbing a bruise on her face. "One would think he's a mandrake."

"I like women!" Victor snapped, a faint blush suffusing his cheeks. "Goodness, can a man just not be interested? I'm getting to the point where I'm going to throw money at you lot just to get you to leave me alone!"

Jack frowned at him. "Well, if you're not a customer, what the hell do you care what I do with my birds?" he demanded.

"What crime could possibly be worthy of being beaten like that?" Victor shot back, straightening to his full height. "I know I can't expect much out of people like you, but – really, making her scream like she was simply for _money_?"

"Like you've ever been wanting the stuff," Jack said, looking him up and down with a sneer. "You _are_ far from home, aren't you swell? How long you been here, five minutes?"

"Cynthia says he's been here since April," the whore said with a snigger. "Doesn't learn fast, does he? Then again, he's almost always out with _her_." She pointed to Alice. "And she sees things, don't you know. Must be catching." She leered at him. "What's the world look like to you, swell? All lollipops and sunshine?"

"I only wish," Victor muttered, some of the fire going out of him. "At least the streets would have something to recommend themselves then."

Alice watched from the sidelines, wondering if was about time she intervened. Jack seemed in a decent mood, but that could change quickly. And Victor. . .well, from what she'd gathered, he was very good at dodging, but she didn't put much faith in his ability to actually _fight_. Even if he had successfully defended himself from an enraged swordsman using only a barbeque fork. She didn't want to have to drag Victor off to the doctor for stitches before they returned to the Home. "Victor, come on, let's go. We've no interest in their business."

"He seemed awfully interested when I was teaching this little woman a lesson," Jack insisted, giving Victor a wicked grin. "What do you say, swell? Shall I nobble you? Teach you a lesson about keeping your nose out of other people's business?"

Victor was silent for a long moment, hands clenching and unclenching. Then he let out a long, frustrated sigh and turned away. "You try to help, and all it gets you is a punch in the teeth," he muttered.

"Oh, don't pretend you care," the whore said, rolling her eyes. "You ain't a customer. Anyone who hangs about with that chicken-breasted girl doesn't know how to dock anyway!"

Victor whirled around, fresh anger lighting up his eyes. "Make fun of me all you want, but leave Alice out of it!"

Damn it, he'd just been about to leave! "Victor, stop! I don't care!" Alice said, grabbing his arm. "May we _go_? You've said your piece, and somehow managed to avoid being knifed for it!"

"Eh, I wouldn't bother dirtying my blade with Rothschild blood like his," Jack smirked. "Be surprised if he had any, with how pale he is." He waved a hand carelessly. "Go on, get out of here and let the real men do their business. Just don't let me see you around here again, you glocky toff."

Victor didn't reply, just turned and walked away back down the street they'd come. Alice followed, giving him her best 'what in God's name were you thinking?' look. "Victor–"

"I know!" he snapped, shooting a glare back at her. Then his shoulders slumped, and his gaze fell to his feet. "I know," he repeated, softer. "It's no different than the police beating a suspect, or two men getting into a brawl. Not that the former doesn't make me a little sick too. . . . She clearly didn't want my help, and I was just. . . ."

"So why did you do it?" Alice demanded. "You know that's all you can expect from the people who live around here! Violence and sex are the two main draws of living in the East End! And don't tell me you've never heard those sounds before. Hardly a day goes by where I don't see some tart with a black eye or purple cheek."

"I have, and I've done my best to ignore them, but this time. . . ." He raised his head, staring off into the middle distance. "It was all building up inside of me, and I thought, 'If you don't say anything this time – you're no better than Lord Barkis.'"

Oooooh. That explained a lot. Alice felt like a right prat for not understanding earlier. Of course Victor would take this sort of thing more personally than most – he'd had to deal with someone who was even _worse_ than Splatter when it came to hurting women for money. And if he'd just let it pile up inside of him like that, churning his stomach and sharpening his nerves. . .well, Alice had plenty of personal experience in knowing how it all eventually exploded out of you. For a moment, the world around her morphed, changed into her cell at Rutledge, and she was hurling the teapot at Dr. Wilson's head, frustrated beyond belief with his useless questions and disgusting potions and having to fight wave after wave of those wretched Automatons – _"How many times must I tell you? I only take tea with friends!"_

She shook off the memory and gave Victor's hand a squeeze. "You could never be anything like that beast of a man," she told him. "From everything you've told me about him, he'd had his heart surgically removed well in his youth. Your problem is, yours is too big for its own good."

"Probably," Victor admitted, still staring straight ahead. How Alice wished she could wipe that defeated look off his face. "That woman had a point – here since April, and I'm _still_ not quite used to how awful Whitechapel is. I suppose nineteen years of growing up well-off is impossible to erase in a little under four months, but. . . ."

"You don't need me to translate the local slang anymore," Alice pointed out. "That's progress, isn't it?"

"Yes – me learning six different ways to tell someone I want to do something unmentionable to them is progress," Victor said, sarcasm oozing out of his voice. "I'm sure my parents will be thrilled with my new vocabulary once I get home. _If_ I get home," he added, closing his eyes for a moment. "Some days I really _do_ think they've just left me here to rot."

Alice really wanted to say, "They're your parents – they would never," but the words stuck in her throat. She knew what sort of letters they sent him – all lecturing and complaining and bemoaning their fates as insanely rich upper-middle-class fish merchants. Not a positive word in them for their son. And all the rest of the world seemed turned against him too, even those who didn't think he had – unusual appetites. It was like the only happy time in his life had been those brief hours he'd spent –

Below.

Suddenly seized with a fit of anxiety, Alice grabbed Victor's hand a little tighter. "Tell me you're not going to leave," she demanded, trying to hide the shake in her voice. Oh God, now she was being as stupid as he'd been five minutes ago, but – she needed to hear it from him.

Victor glanced at her, puzzled. "Leave? Alice, I've told you – if I knew where on earth I could go, I would have left Whitechapel the moment I'd come."

Alice shook her head. "No, Victor. Tell me you're not going to _leave_ ," she repeated, pointing downward with her free hand.

Victor frowned in confusion a moment more – then it clicked. His eyes went wide. "Alice. . . ." He circled around her, putting his hands on her shoulders. "I would never."

"Wouldn't you?" Alice replied, feeling sick. "You told me you practically had that poison at your lips."

A flash of shame went across Victor's face. "That was different," he said firmly. "That time, I thought I had nothing left to live for, and everything to die for. Now. . . ." His fingers lightly squeezed her shoulders. "Now I do have something to live for."

Damn him, why did he have to say things like that? She had gone weeks without blushing. "I'm a pretty poor reason to live," she retorted, folding her arms.

"Don't talk like that," Victor replied. "You've made this stay in hell of mine bearable. Pleasant, even, at times. I never had a friend like you before, and I don't want to give that up." Looking around, he added, "Besides – even with all the horrible things in this world, I know everyone Downstairs who didn't die of old age – and perhaps even some of the ones who did – would have liked to have stayed up here longer. It's wonderful down there, I won't ever say it isn't, but – I think I would have ended up missing being able to feel my heart beat, to see plants grow, to study insects that hadn't been crushed or poisoned. . . ." He looked down at the ground again. "Not that I can do the last two here anyway."

"You're not going to stay here forever," Alice told him. "Either Dr. Bumby will get tired of you, or your parents will finally send you enough money for a train ticket and you can disappear into the night. If they ever finish Moorgate Station, that is."

"I still have no idea where I'd go," Victor muttered.

"You'll figure something out. Either way, you're not as trapped as you think you are." _Even if sometimes I wish you were,_ she added to herself, feeling a pang of guilt over her selfishness. Of course she wanted him to escape the Home and build a better life for himself, but. . .she'd miss him. Terribly. Sure, they could write to each other, but letters weren't the same thing as actual conversation. What was she going to do without him?

 _I don't know – so I should enjoy every moment with him while he's here,_ she decided. "Come on, let's go back to searching for parkland," she said, taking his hand. "It might cheer you up."

Victor looked at her, eyes dull. "Do you really think we'll find any in this horrible city?"

"Now now, who was just telling _me_ not to give up hope?" Alice poked him in the chest. "Don't make me be the optimistic one now. You may think you're not suited for it, but you're much better than _me_ for the role, that's for sure."

It took a moment, but finally, he smiled. "All right. Let's keep looking."

Alice smiled back. "That's the spirit." She led them down another alley, fingers tightly intertwined with his. Well – that had been an unpleasant interlude, but it was over now. Let the scum of London do their worst – this had started out as a good day, and she was determined it end the same.

If only to keep that smile on Victor's face.


	17. Doubts And Fears

August 2nd, 1875

Whitechapel, London's East End, England

2:31 P.M.

"Alice?"

"Hmm?"

"Is it just me, or has one of the children gone missing?"

"Missin – Oh! Yes, sort of," Alice said, looking up from her book. "Caroline was adopted yesterday – Dr. Bumby told me about it earlier. Said he'd found someone who loved her and just had to have her."

"Oh." Victor fiddled with his fingers. "I see."

Alice frowned. That wasn't the reaction she'd been expecting. "Are you all right?"

Victor nodded a little too quickly, forcing a smile. "I'm fine. I'm – I'm glad she's found a new family."

He _was_ a poor liar. Alice stared at him for a long moment, then deliberately closed her book and set it off to one side before turning back and folding her arms. "Something's bothering you," she stated, hitting him with her most penetrating look. Hopefully he recognized the signs of "and I'm not leaving you alone until you tell me what."

She'd give him this much – he managed to keep up the pretense of cheerfulness for about a minute. Then he sighed, shoulders slumping as he nodded. "That news – I don't know _why_ , Alice, but something about it doesn't feel _right_ to me."

Alice arched an eyebrow, confused. "Doesn't feel right? What couldn't be right about it? Caroline got what all of these children want most in the world – a new home."

"I know, and that's wonderful, it's just–" Victor stopped, biting his lower lip as he folded and unfolded his hands in thought. "Who adopted her?"

"I don't know," Alice admitted, shrugging. "Dr. Bumby just said it was a man who'd always wanted a little girl."

"And you've never met him? Of course you haven't," Victor answered himself. "Neither have I. And that's just it – Alice, I _never_ see any potential parents coming to the Home. The only regular visitor we get here is the mailman. How can these children be adopted if no one ever comes over _to_ adopt them?"

"People come over," Alice countered. "It's just usually when we're out and about – in fact, that's the main reason Dr. Bumby _sends_ us out and about, if you recall. I'm sure at least some of them are looking for a child." She flicked a bit of hair out of her eyes. "And there's also the trips he takes the children on to meet with various clients. He must get a lot of them adopted out that way."

"Perhaps," Victor allowed. "But – don't you think that's a little strange? I've never heard of any orphanage taking children to see potential parents. It's always been the hopeful couple that has to visit the children."

"I couldn't say – what I think is a little strange doesn't always line up with what other people think is a little strange," Alice reminded him with a smirk. "But think of it this way – remember how your parents reacted when _they_ first saw the Home? If Dr. Bumby wants to get a child into a decent family, it's probably for the best that he keep such families as far away from Whitechapel as possible."

"Ah – I'll give you that," Victor said, a shudder rolling down his body. "I would be leery about coming out here if I didn't have to as well, even for so noble a reason as adoption. Not to mention I've _seen_ the sort of men who like to skulk around here. The poor parents would be dead before they reached the front door."

"Ugh, yes, I know," Alice said, rolling her eyes as she thought about the loutish figures who sometimes lurked by the back door, calling her names and asking how much she charged. "Sometimes I think it would be worth confirming my reputation as a violent lunatic just to have a go at one of those beasts. At least Dr. Bumby knows how to deal with them. Disgusting wankers, if you'll pardon my language."

"This entire neighborhood is disgusting," Victor muttered, looking out the front window and glowering at the people passing by. _He's got a surprisingly good glower,_ Alice noted. _He might even manage 'scary' if you ever got him mad enough. Would explain how he fought off a skilled swordsman armed only with a fork. A glare from someone as unassuming as him would unsettle the most stable of minds._ "No respect, no morals. . . ."

"Yes, but you can add 'no food' and 'no shelter' to that list as well," Alice pointed out. "These people are scraping around just trying to survive. Not everyone is lucky enough to have had a nice upper-middle-class upbringing like we did. Well – like you did and I sort of did," she amended as the flames leaped up in her mind, consuming her family with their hungry mouths.

Victor shot her a sympathetic look. Then his face hardened again. "I know, but – is it really so hard to hang on to a little human decency?"

"Human decency? Go into Rutledge Asylum and watch them strap a woman into an electric chair under the pretense of 'curing' her of impure thoughts," Alice replied, resisting the urge to clamp her hands onto the arms of her chair as the memories rushed back. "Or cover a man with leeches to remove 'bad blood.' Take a look at that and tell me human decency exists."

Victor opened his mouth to speak – then stopped, closing his eyes with a sigh. "I'd refute that, but – everyone who immediately came to mind, with one exception, was dead. Maybe people become nicer after they've been buried for a year or two." He looked back out onto the streets. "I guess I just – want to change things. I want to make people's lives happier – fuller. And I want said people to be better than just street rats scavenging the trash."

"You can't save the world," Alice told him, not without sympathy. "No matter how rich you are. And even if you were to give all these people a good home and a hot meal every day, some of them would still be monsters and maniacs. You've said yourself some of the nastiest people you've ever known were also some of the richest." Victor nodded reluctantly. "People like you are much fewer than they ought to be, Victor. I'd love to be able to change the world too – to make it so no one has to suffer again. But I've seen enough of reality – and fantasy, honestly–" she added, thinking of the wreck Wonderland had become "– to know that there's always going to be suffering. Always going to be villains lurking the streets. All you can do is look out for yourself, and perhaps try and make a little difference here and there." Knowing what would cheer him up, she added, "You managed to send someone to Heaven, or whatever passes for it. That has to count for something, right?"

Sure enough, Victor smiled. "I would hope so." Then his anxious expression returned as he fiddled some more with his fingers. "Still, speaking about how people treat others. . .maybe I'm being oversensitive, but I don't exactly approve of the way Dr. Bumby handles the children. Those paper placards are still a complete mystery to me."

"He's said that it's for identification purposes – that when he has to discuss the child with a colleague, he can give them a modicum of privacy," Alice said. "What's mysterious about that?"

"Fair enough, but. . .why make them wear _numbers_? That just seems so – dehumanizing. Surely some sort of fake name would be better? Or even letters?" Victor frowned, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Unless it has something to do with their ages. . .of course, when I ask most of them what theirs is, they don't seem to recall."

"It's not that they don't recall, it's that they don't _know_ ," Alice corrected. "Poor people don't usually keep track of that, I've found. There must be hundreds of people scattered throughout this city that have no idea when they were born. They just make a good guess and get on with their lives." She shrugged. "As for your question, I don't know – and does it really matter? The children themselves don't seem bothered by the plaques."

"I suppose not," Victor admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. "But I still don't like it. Plus there's that _look_ he gives them sometimes. . .and I know what you're going to say," he added, holding up a hand before she could speak. "He gives everyone that 'I own you' stare at some point. I know he does. It doesn't make it any less creepy."

"Never said it did," Alice replied, looking away and squirming in her chair. Victor's complaints highlighted some unpleasant truths about the Home and its proprietor – truths she didn't like to think about too much. Dr. Bumby was an unpleasant, arrogant man, that she'd admit readily. She had more experience than she'd like with his tendency to run roughshod over a patient's desires in therapy, dismissing all complaints and protests with the unending refrain of "the psychiatrist knows best." But she'd been able to accept that as something common to _all_ doctors – after all, they hadn't treated her any better in Rutledge. But – well. . .mere arrogance couldn't explain everything. She actually agreed with Victor about how the number system made the children sound less like people and more like a math problem, but the one time she'd brought it up, the doctor had told her it was none of her business. ("Unless you want a plaque of your own," he'd added, and then he'd given her a funny little smile. . . .) He did tend to treat the people under his care as things he owned – pets to be trained, perhaps, or clay to be molded and shaped. Perhaps that was just another trait common to men in his profession, but Bumby seemed to add his own distinct unsettling flair to it, whether it be with those possessive looks or the occasional lingering touch to a face or shoulder (not helped at all by his clammy hands – ugh).

And yet, he could also be very protective of his charges – even fatherly at times. He kept the children close by him whenever they went out together, sending dark scowls to those undesirables who dared look their way. He did his best to make everyone comfortable – when he'd found out about Victor's piano-playing, he'd said that music was wonderful therapy and even gotten the young man a tuning fork so he could keep the instrument in good condition. And whenever those louts at the back door started catcalling at her, he was always quick to send them away. He treated Alice, Victor, and the children as well as he was able, and she appreciated it, but – well, once, she'd caught him giving her a look after he'd sent the lurkers running. It had reminded her of a girl she'd known as a child, a greedy little brat who never shared any of her dolls unless her playmates were willing to pay her price. Bumby's look had made Alice feel like she was _his_ doll, and those men had not yet _earned_ the right to bother her. It was ridiculous, of course – she wasn't anyone's plaything, and certainly not Bumby's – but still. . . .

And if she were honest with herself, there were other things about Houndsditch that bugged her. Like those little trips Dr. Bumby brought the children on. He _claimed_ that they were either therapeutic in nature or visits to new clients interested in adoption, but he refused to elaborate no matter how much she asked. The children themselves never talked about what happened while they were out, but they never looked particularly happy once they returned. (Then again, when did they _ever_ look happy?) And then there were the ones whom Dr. Bumby paid special attention to, saying that they needed his therapy the most. The ones that were the most likely to vanish after being taken to see hopeful parents. Their behavior worried her at times. They were much more obedient than the average child at the orphanage, but. . .there seemed to be something _missing_ from them. They'd play and talk and smile, but there was a sense they weren't really doing so of their own free wills. There was something – wind-up in the way they moved and spoke. And they often drifted off into their own little worlds, reciting snatches of poetry and staring at nothing for long whiles before coming back to themselves. It was disconcerting, to say the least. Of course, maybe that bothered her simply because it reminded her too much of _herself_. But still – it was enough to get her thinking sometimes, like Victor, that there was something a bit _off_ about this whole business. Maybe – maybe she should look into it more, make a few extra inquiries. . . .

She shook her head. No, that would be silly. Bumby wasn't the nicest person in the world, but she had to believe he did care. Somewhere deep down. Deep, _deep_ down. And he _did_ get the children off the streets, didn't he? Gave them a better life than begging, stealing, and digging through garbage piles? Helped them forget the things that hurt them inside? Maybe he didn't always go about in the best way, but he _was_ trying to help. He'd always said that every child had a purpose, and it was the responsibility of knowledgeable adults to find it for them. Wasn't that a good thing? Helping people find what they were best-suited for? (Even if he'd had a weird expression on his face when he'd said it, looking at her in a strange way, like he was seeing someone else. . . .)

_No! Bad Alice!_ she scolded herself. _Stop being paranoid that every doctor is out to get you! Dr. Wilson could be demanding and intrusive at times, and he wasn't exactly gentle with your treatment – I can still taste the camphor and prussic acid in his favorite concoction. But for all his pouring mysterious elixirs down your throat, chaining you up with leather straps, and sneaking your bunny away in the night, he genuinely_ was _trying to help you. Can't you believe the same of Dr. Bumby, arse that he is? They wouldn't let him be a doctor if he didn't have the credentials. So what if he looks at you funny sometimes? Like Victor said, he gives everyone those off-putting stares. Hell, you don't even know if he's really looking at you like that – this dratted brain of yours does love making you see things that aren't there. He didn't_ have _to take you in, you know. If not for him, you'd be stuck in a workhouse – or worse. Stop second-guessing his every move. You – and Victor – are worrying too much._ "I agree that our doctor's mannerisms leave much to be desired. But he's helping these children find new families that love them, and that's the important thing," she concluded, voice firm as she turned back to Victor.

"Yes, all right, that's true," Victor conceded, dropping his hands back to his sides. "Even I think I'm probably working myself up over nothing. I just – I don't _like_ him very much. If that weren't obvious."

"You and everyone else in this Home," Alice said. "And probably most of the people outside it, really." Something nudged her mind then – someone commenting on his bedside manner, or lack thereof. The thought slipped away before she could get a handle on the speaker. Well, it didn't matter exactly who'd said it – her point was true regardless. "But it doesn't matter in the long run. You can do good deeds despite having the personality of a Lava Snark."

Victor laughed. "Oh, dear, do you really think he's that bad?"

"Eh, probably not," Alice allowed, smirking. "He's more like a Fire Imp – harmless, but the way he pokes at you can really get on your nerves."

"That sounds about right," Victor agreed, rolling his eyes. "In fact, I think you just summed up how every one of our sessions together goes."

Alice got up and took his hand, interlacing their fingers. "Well, your parents will tire of sending him money with no results eventually," she reassured him. "Just hang on until then. And don't let him poke at you when he's not even in the room."

Victor gave her a rather tired-looking smile. "I'll do my best." He glanced over at her book. "Alice! Short Course of History? By Havilland Chepmell? Were you really _that_ bored?"

"Yes," Alice groaned, making a face at the volume. "I recognized it from when Nanny used to read it to us for lessons. It's not any better now."

"My first governess used to read it to me all the time. I'd be shocked if it improved with age." Victor's eyes strayed toward the piano. "Instead of torturing yourself with an incredibly dull history of England, would you like to listen to me play something instead?" he offered. "While we've got a moment alone?"

Alice felt her lips curve into a real smile. She'd never be able to properly express her gratitude toward him for letting her be a part of that exclusive group of people he enjoyed sharing his music with. He had such a gift for the piano – everything he played seemed to reach deep into your heart and pull you along with it. Even less-than-musical her. It was truly the best present she could have received during the course of their friendship. "I'd be honored."

Victor grinned, giving her hand a quick squeeze before pulling away and sitting down at the instrument. A few moments later, a soft, dreamy melody filled the front room. Alice sat down again and closed her eyes, letting the notes wash over her. Adieu to worries and doubts, anxieties and misperceptions – at least for now, everything was just fine.


	18. You Are My Sunshine

August 13th, 1875

Whitechapel, London's East End, England

1:53 P.M.

_Snap._

Victor's eyes fluttered opened, blinking a few times as his mind readjusted to proper consciousness. He sighed softly. Yet another lovely session of Dr. Bumby telling him he had to forget Emily, that the Land of the Dead was a hallucination, that he was mad and had to be cured, and him replying no, that wasn't right, leave me alone. At least this time he hadn't woken up with a headache. _I must be getting used to it._

He turned his head to find Dr. Bumby scowling at him. "Your mother told me that you were usually a most obedient child," the doctor said, voice cold. "I'm starting to wonder who she was talking about."

Victor groaned and sat up. "Dr. Bumby, I'm sorry to be such a bother, I really am, but _I_ _don't want to forget her_. I've told you before, I'm not going to go around and declare to the whole world I've seen the afterlife. I'd never say another word on the subject if everyone would just stop telling me it didn't happen."

"You say that, and then I catch you telling stories to the children about Emily, Elder Gutknecht, and that ridiculously-named Bonejangles character," Dr. Bumby replied testily. "They're starting to draw as many pictures of your Land of the Dead as they have of Alice's Wonderland."

"Well, it's not like they believe me," Victor pointed out. "Besides, they like hearing the stories. If I can make their lives a little brighter by telling them about Below–" _And letting them make fun of me afterward_ "– then I'm going to do so. I don't think they're telling anyone else, if that's what you're worried about." _Not that it would make much difference to my reputation around here, honestly,_ he added to himself. _Being a delusional death-lover is probably better than being a "swell."_

Dr. Bumby ignored him, instead staring out the window with a broody expression. "Can make _them_ happy, but can't be bothered to make _me_ happy," he muttered, before directing another sharp look Victor's way. "Your parents are paying me a good sum of money to cure you, Master Van Dort. They want to see you well. _I_ want to see you well."

"I feel I'm already well, sir. Please, why is it so horrible that I want to keep a poor murdered girl's memory alive?"

"Because what you're doing is indulging in a psychosis! The Land of the Dead _does not exist_ , Victor! All you're doing is making life harder for yourself, and for me." Dr. Bumby got up from his chair and walked over to his desk. "My whole work is based around eliminating the painful and unproductive memories of my clients. Your memories of this 'Emily' are extremely unproductive. Their useful life is over – if they ever had one. You are simply delaying your return to proper society for no good reason!" he snapped, slamming his hand on his desk for punctuation.

Victor bit his lip, struggling for something to say. This argument was an old and familiar one by now. The problem was, he couldn't think up any new defenses for his position. "Dr. Bumby–"

"Your whole trouble is your refusal to go deep," Dr. Bumby continued, turning around and glaring at him. "I've never had so much trouble hypnotizing anyone else. Even Alice goes deeper than you, and she's never been the most cooperative of patients." He stalked to the couch and loomed over Victor, eyes hard. "You have got to stop fighting me."

Victor leaned back, intimidated. The glare Dr. Bumby was giving him – it was like he had personally offended the doctor by only going into a light trance. Then again, maybe he had. Dr. Bumby's reputation was built on being a good hypnotist, after all. "P-perhaps that's as far as I can go?" he suggested, gripping the side of the couch for balance.

"Don't give me that. Everyone can go deep. And you – dreamy, artistic, quiet – you should have dropped in moments." Dr. Bumby straightened up. "No, you're struggling against it. Fighting to protect memories you shouldn't even have. That's a sign of a very sick mind, Victor."

A flash of terror shot through Victor. Was Dr. Bumby about to suggest he be committed? He did _not_ want to go to an asylum! "Dr. Bumby, p-please," he pleaded, clasping his hands. "I don't mean to upset you, I really don't. But forgetting Emily and the Land of the Dead goes against everything I believe is right. I _promised_ her I'd remember."

Dr. Bumby frowned, peering at him over the tops of his glasses. "A promise to a woman who didn't exist isn't much of a promise, Master Van Dort."

"I intend to honor it nonetheless. Wouldn't _you_ want to remember if you'd been in my place?"

Dr. Bumby sighed. "I know how to let the past go, Victor. I know how to regulate my mind. If only I could teach you the same." He shook his head, returning to his desk. "You're free to go."

Victor sighed as well and stood up. "Thank you. Good day, Dr. Bumby," he said, more for politeness's sake than out of genuine good feelings. Then he turned and slunk out of the office.

Once he was safely back in the hall, he let his fists clench. Four months. Four months and they _still_ hadn't given up! What would it take to get these people to just leave him be?! Any guilt he still felt over disappointing his parents and psychiatrist was being smothered by his anger over still being stuck in Whitechapel. Why was it so terrible that he dared want to honor Emily's memory? Who was he hurting? Nobody outside of his village seemed to give tuppence about it, apart from relishing the opportunity to bully him with ugly names. And he'd gotten that for so long that it was easy to ignore. _You just_ had _to come to our door ranting about devil worship, didn't you Pastor Galswells?_ he thought as he stalked his way downstairs. _Perhaps if you'd kept your wits about you, my mother would have actually_ listened _to me for once in her life!_

He entered the front foyer and found Elsie, Ollie, and a couple of other children playing with the dollhouse, along with Alice sweeping some dust out the front door. She looked up as he threw himself into a chair. "So, how bad was the argument this time?" she asked, leaning on her broom.

Victor huffed. "It was mostly the typical complaints – my memories are unproductive, the Land of the Dead never existed, Emily was a hallucination. . .you know how it all goes. Though this time he also said my trouble was that I'm not going deep."

"Pardon?"

"When he hypnotizes me," Victor explained. "I only ever go into a light trance. He wants me to go deeper."

"Hmmmm," Alice said, tilting her head. "So you can have terrible visions of your family dying and your childhood dreamland being twisted and broken, like me?"

Victor couldn't help smiling. Alice's brand of sarcasm was just the tonic he needed after a hour with Bumby. "I suppose so. It works so well for you, after all." More seriously, he added, "I'm sorry your sessions still aren't going well."

"Oh, they've never gone well," Alice said philosophically. "My mind prefers tormenting me to listening to Dr. Bumby. Sometimes it'll feel like they're working, and things will get fuzzy–" She threw out a hand. "– and then, chaos."

"You two must just be too old," Elsie said, looking up from the dollhouse. "Too old and too broken. Works on me fine. I like the sessions."

"Bully for you," Alice replied, resuming her sweeping.

"You just don't wanna admit you killed your family," Ollie said with a smirk.

Alice went stiff for a moment, then glared at the boy. Victor joined her, feeling a fresh surge of annoyance. Why did some of the children delight in pushing Alice's buttons? "None of that," he scolded, since Alice seemed disinclined to speak. "What happened to the Liddells was a terrible accident. Nothing more."

"But it was her cat who set the house on fire!" Ollie argued, apparently in one of his combative moods. "Might as well have been her."

"That's not right. Whatever her cat did–"

" _Dinah didn't do anything!_ "

Victor jumped, startled by the fury he heard in Alice's voice. The children seemed similarly shocked – one even hid behind the dollhouse. Alice snarled at all and sundry for a moment, then got a hold of herself, pressing a hand against her forehead. "I'm sorry," she apologized, looking at Victor. "It's just – everyone tells me that the fire started because Dinah knocked over a lamp in our library. But – I couldn't tell you why, but I _know_ Dinah is innocent! There's something wrong with that story, but _I can't figure out what_!" Her knuckles went white around her broom handle. " _This_ is why I want to forget! So I can stop obsessing over cats and lamps and watching my family burn! So I can stop seeing things on the street and having nightmares! So I can stop feeling like I want to scream every time anyone brings up my past!"

A wave of sympathy crashed over Victor. It always hurt to see her like this – looking so angry and yet so _vulnerable._ He wanted to take her in his arms and just hold her until she felt better. "Alice. . . ." he started, rising.

"I want to have problems like yours," she continued, blinking back tears. "I want memories of a happy afterlife, whether they're real or not. I want a corpse groom and butterflies in the moonlight. And I want to not go deep into trance and have visions of my friends dying and mysterious centaurs parading around like they own my Wonderland."

"I'd trade if I could," Victor told her, coming to stand by her side. "Believe me, I would."

"No you wouldn't, and I wouldn't blame you. You don't want to have problems like mine." Alice sighed, shoulders slumping. "I feel like I'm being torn in two. On one hand, I want to forget, so I can start my life over fresh. On the other. . .I want to know what happened that night. I want to know the truth."

"The truth is your stupid cat was clumsy and you just don't wanna admit it," Ollie said, having recovered his courage.

Alice shot him another glare. "My cat didn't do a damn thing. One day I'll prove that to you."

"And if kitty _did_?" the boy said with an evil smirk.

"Then it's still not _her_ fault," Victor said before Alice could reply. "It's not like she had any way of k-knowing what her cat was going to do." _Unlike I did, once. . . ._

To his surprise, Alice frowned at him, as if she'd picked up on his thought. "You sound like you talk from personal experience," she commented. "Did Scraps do something wrong once, and you got blamed?"

Victor hesitated a moment, then shook his head. She'd get it out of him sooner or later – might as well make it sooner. "No, it's – it's got nothing to do with pets," he said reluctantly. "I was thinking of – Lord Barkis's death."

Alice arched an eyebrow. "What about it?"

"Did you lie? Did you kill him?" Ollie asked excitedly. The other children abandoned their play to listen in.

"Not directly, but. . . ." Victor sighed. "I knew that goblet was filled with poison. I could have saved him. I didn't." He looked at his feet, feeling the guilt pile up on him. "Because I felt he deserved to die."

"He did," Alice said promptly. "That monster could have just let Victoria go when he realized she didn't have any money. But instead he decided he was going to make her suffer because he'd neglected to do his research. And that's not even considering the fact he married her just to steal her dowry – and that he'd already murdered one girl for _her_ gold and jewels."

"Yes, yes, I know all that," Victor told her, looking back up. "And I'm not sorry he's dead. It's just – was it really my decision to let him kill himself? If I knew, did I have any moral obligation to speak up?"

"You and everyone else in that church knew," Alice pointed out. "With the possible exception of Victoria, but if she had any brains in her head she surely figured out that the wine was no good for anyone's health when she saw it being used in your wedding to a corpse. Any of them could have said something too. If the blame falls on you, it falls on them equally." Her eyes softened. "Do you think he even would have listened to you? The man he'd just attempted to murder?"

"I – I guess not," Victor said, fiddling with his fingers. "I know the guilt's stupid. You're right in saying any of us could have spoken up. And I was far more concerned with protecting Victoria at the time. I don't think any of us were thinking clearly at that moment." He let out a weak chuckle. "Not to mention the bottle had a huge glowering skull on it. You think that would have been an obvious clue. . . ." He adjusted his tie. "But still. . .I wonder what it says about me that I would _let_ someone die."

"Well – have you ever _wanted_ to kill someone? Or allow someone to kill themselves?" Alice asked, stepping back with arms crossed. "Have you ever felt that way about any other person you've come across?"

Victor thought. "No," he said with a little shake of his head. "I've never gotten quite so angry at anyone before or since. Not even Bumby when he annoys me comes close."

"And why did you want him to die? Because he'd tried to kill you?"

"No!" Victor said automatically, then bit his lip as Alice gave him a flat look. "All right, maybe that played a tiny part. . .but the main reason I wanted him to drink that poison was because of all the hurt he'd caused others. I wanted him to die so he'd stop spreading his evil throughout the world. I wanted him to die so no one would have to suffer like Emily or Victoria ever again."

Alice smiled. "Then I don't think you have any reason to worry," she told him, laying a hand on his arm. "You're not bloodthirsty, Victor. You just have a very strong sense of justice."

"And she'd know, being Miss Bloodthirsty," Ollie said, although his expression suggested that he was in fact disappointed Victor wasn't.

Alice scowled at him. "You know, your constant hurtful comments don't actually make you part of the conversation."

The boy just shrugged and went back to playing. Victor rolled his eyes, then put his hand over Alice's. "Thank you," he told her. "I think I needed to hear that from someone else. And for what it's worth, I believe you about Dinah. I hope you find out what really happened, so you can put it all to rest."

"Thank you," Alice said, just a hint of her previous smile pulling at her lips. "I'd say 'and I hope you can convince Dr. Bumby you're not mad,' but I doubt that's going to happen."

"Me either," Victor confessed with a groan. "It's been just over four months. You'd think that long with no change would have convinced him."

"He likes a challenge," Alice said, shrugging. "Why do you think he's put up with me for so long?" She stepped away and leaned her broom up against the wall. "Granted, I never expected you to still be with us four months later," she continued, leaning next to it. "You seemed so fragile when you first came here. I thought Bumby would break you for sure."

"I'm very glad he hasn't," Victor said, shaking his head. "My parents didn't expect me to last this long either. Their last letter was almost entirely things like, 'How could you still be clinging to such delusions?' and 'Why won't you work with your doctor?'" He rubbed his face, the frustration building up again in his chest. "I've given into them on practically everything else. I've always tried to be the good, obedient son they wanted. Why can't they let me have this? Why can't they see how important it is to me?"

"Because they're only concerned with what's important to them," Alice said bluntly. "They proved that to me with the letter about the penny dreadfuls." She put her hand back on his arm, pulling it away from his face. "But I think it's good that you're sticking to your principles. Don't give them an inch."

"I have no intention to," Victor told her, smirking. "Even if I have to spend a year here, I'm not giving up." Although that thought made him shiver internally. An entire year at Houndsditch, living in the East End, in a maze of cobblestones and smog and terrifying people. . .even the most battle-hardened warrior would get a chill, he was sure. _Please, don't let it come to that!_

"Let's hope you don't have to," Alice said, echoing his thought. "Let's hope that both of us can get out of here before Christmas this year." She paused. "And while we're hoping, let's hope unicorns appear and solve all our problems."

Victor laughed. "Has anyone ever told you you're quite funny?"

"Someone did just now," Alice grinned, patting his arm. "I'm glad you find my smart remarks amusing. Not that I would stop making them if you didn't."

"I wouldn't want you to."

"Glad we're in agreement then." Alice slid her hand up to his shoulder, frowning. "And you _are_ tense. Dr. Bumby didn't try that whole 'darkness is a good thing and you should get used to it' routine on you again, did he?"

"Oh, no," Victor assured her, resisting the urge to shudder. Even months later, the memory of that horrific session still haunted him. "He's occasionally made suggestions to that effect, but n-nothing like he tried that one time. The typical session is either trying to make me forget Emily, or eliminating my nervous habits."

Alice glanced at his hands, folding and unfolding themselves. "Considering how fidgety you still are, I don't think that's worked any either."

Victor shrugged. "I think I might play with my tie a little less. . . ."

Alice smirked at him. "Oh, I wasn't complaining. I like you fidgety."

"You're the first person on Earth to say that. Even my parents don't like me fidgety."

"Your parents don't like anything about you, or anyone else," Alice declared. "They should move to the bottom of the ocean. At least there your father might get along with the fish."

Victor chuckled. "I doubt it – he kills them and packs them in cans for a living. They'd swarm him and try to take their revenge."

"I don't think the average fish would be much good at that."

"I don't think so either. Father should be very grateful he doesn't have to deal with your Snarks." Victor turned thoughtful. "I wonder if he'd try to can _them_ if he could."

"He'd be welcome to them," Alice said, bitterness creeping into her voice. "I'd hunt them down and bring him the carcasses myself. Though I doubt they'd taste very good. Particularly the Lava Snarks."

"That probably wouldn't stop Father, so long as they were fresh and cheap." Victor laughed again. "How do we get into such odd conversations?"

"Well, I'm not all there in the head. I don't know your excuse." Alice gave his shoulder a light squeeze. "But I have to say, I like them."

"I like them too," Victor said, putting his hand over hers. "You always make me feel better about being here. Thank you."

"Thank _you_ for being the only decent company this city has to offer," Alice replied, smiling.

"Hey, what about us?" one of the children playing with the dollhouse protested.

"You're not old enough to be decent company yet."

"That's not what Dr. Bumby says."

"Well, Dr. Bumby has his opinion, and I have mine. Besides, you lot make fun of me at every opportunity. Or say things that you _know_ will upset me," Alice added, frowning significantly at Ollie.

"So you'd rather talk to the necrophiliac?" Ollie replied, smirking at Victor.

Victor shook his head, eyes rolling heavenward. "Ollie, stop it," Alice scolded. "You only tease him so much because you like to show off that you know a long, complicated word."

"I also know 'pyromaniac.'"

"I am going to stuff you into that dollhouse if you don't be quiet."

"Ooooh, could you?" Elsie said, clapping her hands. "I'd help! He broke my dolly the other day."

Alice grinned at the suddenly-frightened boy. "Two against one. I'd learn how to keep your mouth shut."

Ollie, now tight-lipped, nodded and quickly went back to his play. Victor repressed a snigger. "You're terrible," he mock-scolded.

"Yes, but so are they, so it all works out," Alice replied. "Besides, I saw you trying not to smile. You like it when we're terrible to each other."

"Perhaps a little," Victor confessed. He stretched, glad to feel the tension leaving his muscles. "I think I may go and draw for a while. I'm feeling much better now."

"Glad to hear it," Alice said. "And really, don't let Bumby upset you. So you don't do what he wants you to do. Perhaps some failure will help temper that ego of his."

"Maybe, but I doubt it." He gave her a little nod. "I'll see you at tea?"

"Unless the dust sneaks back in, yes," Alice joked with a grin.

Something about the way her eyes sparkled as she said that caught Victor's attention. He found himself staring at her, taking in her face. He'd seen her daily for four months now, but for some reason, it felt like he'd never really _looked_ at her before. Her eyes were brilliant – bright green fire (though he'd never use that metaphor around her). Her skin was a sickly white, but smooth and clear. Her dark hair was tousled and ragged, but all that did was make him want to run his fingers through it, combing it for her with his hands. He wondered how it would feel – soft? Rough? No, Alice took good care of her hair, it was sure to be soft. . .soft as those pale pink lips of hers. The color of a tea rosebud, just about to bloom. And that smile of hers – like a ray of sunshine breaking through the ever-present city gloom. Victor smiled back as his heart melted into a warm runny mess. Oh, her smile was just so _perfect_. Almost like –

Like Victoria and Emily's smiles.

It was like having ice water dumped over his head. In a single blink, the moment was lost. Alice tilted her head, a confused look taking the place of the grin. "Something else you wanted?"

"No, no, j-just lost in thought," Victor said, spinning around before she could get a good look at his face. "Um – g-good luck with your chores." He bolted out of the foyer, toward the safety of his own room. That warmth – was he really –

 _No!_ he shouted at himself. _No, you are_ not _falling in love with her! If you fall in love with her, you might ruin the one friendship you've made here. Love and you don't mix – didn't you learn anything from what happened with Victoria and Emily? Perhaps you weren't in true love with either of them, but it still hurt like the dickens when you found out you didn't have a chance with either, didn't it? Do you want to feel that again?_

Still, the lingering gooey sweetness in his chest was hard to ignore. He hadn't realized before now just how close to Alice he'd gotten. She really was the sunshine in his life. He could barely imagine a life without her – even as he knew he would have to leave her behind one day. Yes, there were always letters, and chances to visit, but – without her actually by his side, his days were going to be much gloomier. And when she smiled like that. . . .

He shook his head. This was silly. He simply _couldn't_ fall in love with Alice. He wasn't going to stay here forever – even his notoriously-determined parents would eventually get tired of this farce of psychology. And besides, what hope did he have of his feelings being reciprocated? With Victoria, he'd had the advantage of a pre-arranged engagement; with Emily, the fact that she was willing to take anyone who proposed. They'd _had_ to at least tolerate him at first, and there had been the promise of a lifetime (or afterlifetime) together to get to know each other properly. No such guarantees with Alice – she actively _avoided_ getting close to people.

 _And you're the exception,_ a little voice inside him said. _What does that mean?_

 _That I've made a good friend,_ Victor replied firmly, sitting down and retrieving his sketchbook. Art would make a good distraction from this insanity. _And I shouldn't hope for anything more._ He let out a deep sigh before picking up his pen. _I can't stand having my heart broken again._


	19. Dinghys And Dodos

August 24th, 1875

Whitechapel, London's East End, England

3:39 P.M.

_Bloody children and their bloody thieving ways. . .yes, I know, come play and you'll give my art skills back, but I don't have the time! I've already got a surfeit of children in the real world to deal with, you know. You lot go play with the White Rabbit, see if you're any better at catching him than I am._ Alice sighed as she gazed down at her scribbles. _Well, at least this one actually_ looks _something like a dodo. More than I can say for my last –_

_What's that?_

Alice lifted her head from the mangled sketch, eyebrows furrowed. Drifting in through her half-open door were the soft strains of – Beethoven? Bach? Brahms? One of them. That in itself wasn't particularly strange. The fact that they clearly _weren't_ the result of Victor at the piano? That was. These notes had a strange, tinny sound to them – like someone was playing them on a metal comb. Curious, she abandoned her feeble attempts at drawing and followed the music into the front foyer. There, she found Reggie, Charlie, Elsie, and Abigail, all crowded around Victor and – "A music box?"

Charlie grinned at her. "Reggie and I found it in the garbage! Victor said he might be able to get it working again, and he did!"

"There wasn't much wrong with it," Victor said modestly. "The cylinder was out of alignment, and a couple of teeth were bent. Rather easy to fix."

"I see." Alice stepped forward for a closer look. The box was mahogany, stained dark red, with fancy curlicues etched into the sides and lid. Its time in the junk heaps had not been kind – there were deep gouges and chips in the wood, and whatever had been inlaid in its patterns had either fallen out or been forcibly extracted. But the mechanics moved smooth and true, and the tune it played was a pretty one. "It must have cost someone a pretty penny when it was new," she commented, touching a tarnished hinge.

"They must be really rich if they just tossed it into the garbage," Elsie said, looking quite envious of this hypothetical person.

"And very wasteful," Alice agreed with a deep frown. "Especially if all it needed were a few minor adjustments."

Victor shrugged. "Some people are like that – preferring to buy something new rather than get anything fixed. Mother might have done the same if she'd been the owner."

"Oh, I've no doubt." _After all, the miserable old cow tossed you aside after you got "broken,"_ she added in her head. Perhaps it was wrong to hate someone you'd barely been introduced to, but Alice couldn't help it. Victor's stories about his mother always got under her skin. Largely because the image of the distant, uncaring Nell contrasted so sharply with her memories of her own warm, loving mother. _Why is it people like my parents end up dying rather young through no fault of their own, and people like Victor's are allowed to go around making nuisances of themselves with no consequences?_ she wondered bitterly. _Not that I'm wishing a house fire on anyone, but really. . . ._

She dismissed such depressing thoughts from her mind and returned her attention to the music box. "Well, their loss is our gain. I think we could use a little more music around here." As a joke, she added, "Perhaps we could convince Dr. Bumby to hire a dancing instructor to teach you all. I wouldn't bet my life on it, but this sounds like a waltz."

"How would you know?" Reggie asked, frowning at her.

"Well, I've had a couple of dance lessons myself, and the tune–"

"No you haven't," Abigail interrupted, apparently in a contrary mood. "I bet you can't dance at all."

"I can so," Alice retorted, folding her arms. "I learned with Lizzie. Right before–" She stopped as ghosts of smoke and echoes of screams threatened to pull her away from the real world. "Well." She shook her head, clearing the phantoms from her skull. "Mama hired a man to teach her, and I was allowed to sit in and observe, and to do a turn myself if I was good."

"But that was _ages_ ago," Abigail persisted. "You're _old_ now. I bet you've forgotten everything."

"You know how much trouble I have with forgetting. Something's sure to have stuck."

"Prove it then," Abigail challenged. "Show us."

"How? I don't have a part–"

Wait a minute. What was she saying? She was standing right next to someone who'd spent most of his life being prepared to mingle with the upper classes. She turned and looked up at Victor. "Well? Have you had dance lessons?"

Victor stared at her a moment, obviously taken by surprise. Then he stepped back, playing a little with his tie. "Yes, but – you don't want me as your dance partner," he said, shaking his head.

"Why not?"

Victor raised an eyebrow. "You ask that after seeing me walk into doors at least once a fortnight, bump into the same endtable three times in less than a hour, and trip over my own feet on countless occasions?" He sighed and looked away. "I'm no good at it, Alice. All I'd do is knock you over and tear your dress."

"Yes, because this old thing getting ripped would be the end of the world," Alice muttered, scowling down at the dull olive-green dress currently adorning her body. Ugh, she despised it with its horrid color and itchy fabric, but with only two dresses to choose from and the black-and-white one needing a wash, she was stuck with it. "Really, Victor, you'd be doing me a favor by destroying it."

Victor ignored her comment. "No young lady's ever wanted to dance with me before, and I don't blame them," he continued. "I can barely walk upright some days. You deserve a better partner."

Alice put her hands on her hips. "And where, pray tell, am I going to find this better partner?"

Victor fell silent, unable to answer that one. Alice held out a hand, putting on her best pleading look. "Please. If you don't help me prove them wrong, they'll tease me about this along with everything else."

"And besides, now we want to see how bad _you_ are," Elsie added, grinning evilly. The other children nodded in agreement, eyes bright with hopeful _schadenfreude_.

Victor hesitated a moment more. Then, slowly, he took Alice's hand. "All right. . .but watch your toes," he warned.

"I'll do my best," Alice promised, giving him a grin. "Charlie, wind the box up again, will you?"

Charlie nodded and picked up the box. There was a few seconds of clicking and ticking, then the music started over from the beginning. Victor pulled Alice close, then reached for her waist. His hand stopped a few inches from actually touching, hovering like a moth skirting the edges of a candle flame. Alice gave him a flat look, then pressed it against her side. Honestly, didn't he know by now that she didn't mind _him_ touching? Then again, maybe he was just nervous. She slid her own hand as far up his arm as she could reach, pushing their still-joined pair out to the side. For a moment, they were still, just watching each other. Then Victor took the first step, and they began to dance.

Despite what she'd said to Abigail, Alice's memories of her and Lizzie's dance lessons _were_ rather faded. Fortunately, despite all his protests to the contrary, Victor appeared to know what he was doing. Alice just hung on and followed his lead as best she could. Their waltz was glacially slow, and marked by numerous stops and starts, but she didn't care. All that mattered was that it _was_ a waltz. _After all,_ she thought as they turned round and round in their little square of floor, _I only said I could dance. I never claimed that I could dance_ well _._

She noticed Victor's eyes flicking down to their feet. "Are you _that_ terrified of stepping on my toes?" she had to ask. "Victor, your feet are _tiny_. They're not coming anywhere near mine."

"I'm sorry," Victor said, a faint blush suffusing his cheeks. "But I _have_ stepped on people's feet before. And their dresses," he added with a wince. "I tore one young lady's during a ball once. I spent the rest of the evening in the corner nursing a bruise."

Ah – that explained a lot. "Well, you're in no danger of tearing my dress," Alice assured him. "And I forgive you in advance if you step on my feet." She patted his arm. "Try to relax. It's just a silly little dance in front of silly little children."

"I'm not little!" Abigail protested.

Victor gave her a weak smile. "Perhaps, but – after so many nights of disappointing partners, I – I want to get this one right." His eyes dropped down again. "And not cause you any injury, no matter how minor."

A vague snippet of memory entered Alice's mind – the instructor leading an anxious Lizzie around the room, ordering her to stop staring at her feet so much. _"It may sound odd, but it's true – you concentrate too much on your footwork, and you're_ more _liable to make a mistake. Just let the body flow, Miss Liddell. You'll be able to rely on your partner to keep you right."_ Good advice (even if it wasn't from a Caterpillar). She let go of Victor's arm and tilted his head up. "You're just making it more likely you're going to run either yourself or me into something, staring at the floor like that," she told him. "You need a new distraction – stare at my eyes for a while."

Victor let out an embarrassed laugh. "I thought I'd gotten out of that habit."

"Well, go ahead and get back into it. I'd rather have you looking at my face." She adopted a mock-hurt expression as she fluttered her eyelashes. "Unless you don't think my eyes are the most gorgeous you've ever seen anymore?"

"Oh, no – I mean y-yes – I mean–" Alice bit back a giggle as Victor struggled to come up with the right answer. "They're still gorgeous," he managed at last. Then, in a softer voice, he added, " _You're_ still gorgeous."

The laughter died as she felt her cheeks heat up. Why did he always have to sound so sweet when he said things like that? She still didn't know how to deal with sweet. "Well – you're quite handsome," she replied, figuring the best thing to do was repay the compliment.

Victor averted his eyes, looking shy. "Oh, no, I'm not–"

"You are so," Alice cut him off, not wanting to hear him put himself down again. God, he desperately needed some more self-esteem. Damn that Nell! And all those girls who had rejected him too. "You cut a very fine figure in your suits."

"That's because I'm a swell, remember?" Victor returned, tone sarcastic, but with just a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

"I like swells," Alice informed him, smirking. "Besides, it's rude to contradict a lady. A swell should know that."

"I have had that pounded into my head by my mother," Victor allowed, now smiling in earnest. "So – if you insist. . . ."

"I do indeed, Master Van Dort," Alice said, putting on her best "haughty" voice and trying not to ruin it with a grin. "I do indeed."

They continued dancing, their movements gradually becoming more fluid as they fell into a rhythm. Alice overheard Charlie whispering to Reggie about how "there's no music no more" as she and Victor passed them, but she paid it no heed. She had the music in her head now – and she was willing to bet Victor did too. Their banter seemed to have loosened up him quite a bit – he was moving with a lot more confidence. And a lot more grace, which surprised her. She had to admit, she had expected him to have tripped at least once by now. _I guess Lizzie's old instructor was right,_ she mused as they turned again. _The less you concentrate on your feet, the easier it'll be._

Victor suddenly stepped back, pulling his hand from her waist. For a moment, Alice thought he wanted to end the dance – then he lifted her arm above her head, and she realized he meant for her to twirl. She spun as lightly as she could on her toes, unable to help a little laugh escaping her. This was a lot more fun than she'd thought it would be. Victor beamed as he pulled her back toward him. "You dance very well," he complimented her. "Especially for someone who hasn't had any lessons for over ten years."

"I guess I learn fast," Alice said, directing a triumphant smirk Abigail's way.

Abigail stuck her tongue out at her. "Yes, yes, the amazing Alice can do anything. The music stopped two minutes ago, you know. Unless you're hallucinating you're in a ballroom now?"

"Or Victor's Ball & Socket?" Charlie piped up.

Victor chuckled. "Oh no, a dance in the Ball & Socket would be rather more – energetic – than this. I'd never be able to manage one of those. You should have seen me the first time I attempted a fast-paced quadrille – I nearly crashed into the buffet table."

Alice blinked at that. Quadrille? There was something about that word that poked at her mind. . .something about seafood. . .lobsters? And throwing them out to sea. . . _will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance? Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?_ Of course, the Lobster Quadrille! Sung by the Mock Turtle and – and – Gryphon! Bloody hell, how had _Gryphon_ slipped her mind?! He was one of her dearest friends – and one of the few creatures to _help_ her on her last trip to Wonderland! Her brow furrowed. Bumby didn't like Gryphon for some reason. . .he'd spent the bulk of one session telling her that wasting thought on "silly mythical beasts" was a poor use of her time. . . .

Her foot landed wrong on a crooked floorboard, and she felt herself falling backward, yanking her back into the present. Fortunately, Victor still had a firm grip on her waist and managed to turn her trip unto an unplanned dunk. She bit her lip as she looked up at him, feeling quite silly. What a time to let her mind wander. "Well," she said, trying to diffuse the situation with humor, "it appears that since you didn't take a tumble, I must."

"I'd rather you didn't," Victor said, frowning. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," Alice assured him, meeting his eyes.

And then, for no reason she could name, her heart skipped a beat. There seemed to be something else in his deep brown gaze besides concern. Something. . .warm. Warm and cozy, like she'd suddenly been wrapped in a big soft blanket. It was a very pleasant sensation, but. . . where was it coming from? Sure, Victor often made her feel nice, but there was something different about this, something that seemed to have little fluttery wings on it. . .he really _was_ handsome, she had to say. Not in the classic sense, of course, but there was something undeniably sweet about those big eyes and straight nose and delicate lips – and was it just her, or were those lips inching closer –

"What. Are you two. Doing."

Alice jerked her head around, breaking the spell. Dr. Bumby was standing in the doorway, arms folded, a piece of paper in his hand. His eyes were narrowed almost to slits behind his glasses, and his mouth was a thin, severe line. Victor hastily pulled Alice upright, one hand going for his tie. "Oh, Dr. Bumby! We – w-we were just–"

"Dancing," Alice finished for him.

"Why?" Dr. Bumby asked, expression not changing.

For God's sake, it was like he'd caught them performing indecent acts in his foyer instead of having a friendly waltz. "Because it's fun. And because I wanted to prove a point to an obstinate little girl," Alice added, throwing a look toward Abigail. Abigail just rolled her eyes.

"I don't let you stay here so you can have _fun_ , Miss Liddell," Dr. Bumby said, voice like ice. "Nor you, Master Van Dort. You are here to receive _therapy_. And in your case, Miss Liddell, to work."

Victor shifted from foot to foot. "It was only a dance," he murmured, not meeting Dr. Bumby's hard stare. "J-just a bit of amusement. . . ."

"It is most improper for you two to be dancing in my front room," Dr. Bumby snapped. "I don't want to see it happen again. You are supposed to be taking your time here _seriously_ , not making a mockery of things by pretending you still live in a rich neighborhood." His eyebrows lowered. "And for God's sake, stop fiddling with your tie! Don't you understand how irritating that is?"

Victor's hands jumped away from the cloth. "S-sorry," he mumbled.

Alice frowned and folded her arms. "Now really, Dr. Bumby–"

"I'm entitled to run _my_ home however I like, Miss Liddell," Dr. Bumby cut her off. "And I pay your salary, so you will do as I say." He pointed at the front door. "You have something to pick up at the High Street chemist. A new potion I think will be beneficial to one of the children. Go now or I'll dock you half a day's pay."

With that, he turned and stormed away. Victor finally dared to lift his head. "Goodness, what has _him_ in such a mood?"

"I don't know," Alice said, arching an eyebrow. "Maybe he just woke up on the wrong side of the bed. Happens to the best of us – and the worst." She sighed, glancing at the door. "I'd better be off. Losing half a day's pay is nothing to sneeze at." _Pris takes enough of my wages as it is._

"Of course – I wouldn't think of keeping you," Victor said, all politeness. "Safe trip."

"Thank you." She smiled at him. "And thank you for a lovely dance. Even if _he_ had to ruin it."

Victor smiled back. "The pleasure was all mine."

There it was again – that odd _something_ in his look, which prompted that equally odd fluttery feeling in her chest. Alice still couldn't figure out what it was. All she knew is that it made her blood run a little warmer, her heart beat a little faster, her arms suddenly long to embrace him. . . .

But the longer she lingered trying to puzzle it out, the more likely it was she'd end the month with less money than usual. So she just gave him a quick nod before heading out onto the street. _Why is he making me feel so peculiar all of a sudden?_ she wondered as she walked along the path to the chemist's, frowning to herself. _I don't think anything's changed between us. He's as good a friend as ever. So why. . . ?_

" _Making more mysteries for yourself, Alice?"_

Alice turned her frown on the skeletally-thin blue cat padding by her side. "I don't need any of your riddles complicating things further," she informed him. "Frankly, I don't need these mystery feelings complicating things either. All I want to do is enjoy whatever time I have with Victor. I don't want to worry him by acting strange."

" _I don't think you'd worry him a bit – but perhaps you're right, and now isn't the best time to consider the way your heart beats,"_ Cheshire said, cryptic as ever. _"You've gotten yourself in quite a lot of trouble with your doctor, and all of us are certain it will lead to no good end. Brace yourself, Alice. The night can be its darkest right before dawn, and with your dislike of lamps and candles, you're at a disadvantage at navigating it."_

"I'll get Victor to hold the lamp for me then. If he promises not to drop it," she added, grimacing as she thought of scorch marks on a certain Lady Everglot's dress.

" _A wise move – he's admirably canine in his loyalty. But he can't follow you everywhere. . . ."_

The Cat vanished, leaving Alice to sigh and shake her head. "At least I know he'll make every effort to, unlike some companions I could name." She frowned again. _Though he has a point about Bumby – what_ did _crawl up his arse and die? He can be a bastard sometimes, but never quite like_ that _._ She rolled her eyes. _Hopefully he'll be in a better mood by the time I get back. Dock me half a day's pay just for having a bit of fun indeed. . . ._

* * *

Bumby stormed back into his office, the letter he'd been reading forgotten in his hand. How could they – how _dare_ they? Dancing with each other, _smiling_ at each other – he'd never seen either of them smile like that before. Alice had been glowing, more beautiful than he'd ever seen her, and Victor. . .the expression on his face, the way he'd been looking at Alice. . . . Even with jealousy welling up within him, Bumby couldn't fault the boy for acting like she was the only thing that mattered. For one shining moment, they'd been – perfect.

Then they'd sprung apart, and Alice had given him that frown, and suddenly all he'd been able to see was Elizabeth glaring at him, telling him to go away. . .but worse still was Victor, stammering, eyes on the floor, playing with his tie, looking so vulnerable and afraid and –

Bumby closed his eyes, shook his head, but the image remained. Victor looking so worried, so desperate to please. . .but he wasn't desperate to please, was he? No, he'd give you that look and then turn around and refuse you access to his mind, his deepest self. . .he'd smile at Alice, and Alice would smile at him, but neither of them would smile at _you_. . .he'd bend over and give you a perfect view of his arse, and then act like you were the strange one for staring. . . . He was – he was –

a tease.

Bumby knew he had some – less than Godly urges toward people of his own sex. Not often – he still preferred women most of all. (Particularly women like Alice, with her dark hair and pale skin – why couldn't she have blue eyes, Elizabeth had had such gorgeous blue eyes. . . .) But every so often, a man would come along who would make his dick stiffen just a little. Victor Van Dort was one of those, with his raven hair and wide brown eyes and perfect lips. Still, Bumby had been certain he could resist the boy's charms.

Until he became a tease, a wretched _tease_ , mocking him, _taunting_ him –

He'd have them both. He'd have them both, and punish them for their crimes – Alice for surviving the fire, surviving insanity, coming here and reminding him of Elizabeth (horrid girl!), trying to find out the truth; Victor for being so bloody handsome, caring about Alice, fighting his therapy, _flaunting_ himself and then saying "you can't have me," just like Alice did every moment of the goddamned day –

Teases! How dare they deny him! He'd take them, and he'd break them down! Alice would be his high-class prostitute, his finest specimen, who would cost a pretty penny when he wasn't using her himself, and Victor would be his personal assistant, his lackey, his hole when he felt the urge. They would obey him, love him, be his and his alone! Bumby crumpled the paper in his fist, snarling.

God damn it, but he couldn't _stand_ teases.

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If the title of this chapter confuses you, it's a reference to the song that I (and a friend) picture as the tune coming out of the music box: "Boats and Birds," by Gregory and the Hawk.


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